


Only Human

by OneOnOne



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, M/M, Possession, Shenannery, Slow Burn, Spoilers for ARR msq, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love, sad end, vaguely canon compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2018-12-16 10:02:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 30,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11826423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneOnOne/pseuds/OneOnOne
Summary: You can't choose who you fall in love with, nor can you control what happens as a consequence of that love. The only thing you can change is how that love defines you.... And sometimes, barely even that.





	1. By The Sword

Walking into The Solar, Valen feels about as confident as one physically can upon meeting a group of highly skilled and educated individuals for the very first time. (The Lalafell at the entrance had giggled when he’d inspected his pants for dirt.) Striding up to the desk and giving no more than a brief nod by way of introduction, he then takes the time to examine each of the men and women gathered one by one as they introduce themselves- affixing their faces to memory. If he is to join this organization, whatever it may be, he would start by learning of his allies.

It is only when his eyes land on Thancred that he stutters, gaze lingering a moment too long to be discrete before his eyes all but _jump_ in escape to Y’shtola, who tilts her head at him in curious inquiry. As she speaks to him, voice mildly pleasant, he smiles and nods enthusiastically, trying desperately to ignore the barest of flushes turning his ears pink.

His awestruck expression is not lost, nor missed by any present, not even Yda. As Minfilia briefs him on their first request- his first proper mission, Valen is _devastated_ to learn he is to work with the man in question. Something the bard seems to find amusing as the adventurer introduces himself quickly and nods a bit too rapidly to be sensible as he goes over the details of their mission.

A number of refugees gone missing with suspected foul play, at the very least Valen is certain there is no way for him to muck that up with his sudden newfound lovesickness. As he excuses himself, promising to meet Thancred at the rendezvous point, he all but jogs to the exit, closing the door firmly behind him.

In the poignant silence that follows his retreat, Y’shtola is the first to break it with an unamused look at her companion. “Must you?” She asks, prompting a look of feigned indignation from him.

“I beg your pardon? I haven’t done anything.” Thancred protests, folding his arms and trying not to preen over the fact that he has somehow managed to catch the eye of their newest recruit simply by breathing.

“His talents aside, there’s clearly no accounting for taste.” Papalymo agrees from across the room, startling an affronted glare from his friend while Yda palms her fist in thought.

“Well they do say love is blind.” She tries to amend, making the bard gawk and causing her to laugh.

“Now hold on a moment, aren’t you all getting a little too worked up over this? It’s just a harmless bit of attraction to my good looks.” When Minfilia _snorts_ and immediately has to mask her face with both hands, Thancred’s expression is _wounded._ “... even you?”

“In humble virtue, one might find atonement for sins of the mind and body.” Is all Urianger has to say as he thumbs his chin in thought, possibly hiding a smile, before he heads to the door.

“And what does _that_ mean?” Thancred asks, watching him go even as he feels his cheeks start to go red from irritation of their entertainment at his expense.

“Seducing an innocent young man might give you pause in your actions from now on.” Is all the Elezen will say in elaboration, chuckling richly when Thancred’s body jerks upright as if stung.

“ _Seducing?_ Now hold on a minute, I barely said a _word_ to the man before-” And the entire conversation grinds to a halt because Urianger has just opened the door and _there stands Valen_. His face is in his hands, beet red from head to toe and looking to all the world like he’s praying for a new calamity to strike him from the earth where he stands.

“I… uhm…” He begins, haltingly and unable to meet any of their eyes. “I left… before we discussed where… we would meet.”

“... Camp… Camp Drybone. Eastern Thanalan.” Thancred answers after a pregnant pause in which every Archon within the room has turned to look at him in unadulterated glee. He swallows once past a dry throat, feeling enough mortification for the both of them, and shrugs a little haplessly. “I should be along shortly.”

Not wanting to face any of them longer than he must with his face burning up like the streets of Ul’dah under a hot sun, Valen gives one short nod and turns to leave. When he _hesitates_ , however, it gives all in the room pause. Long enough to hear a very, _very_ bashful- “It wasn’t your looks, and your personality could use some work.” His ears seem to glow. “... but your voice is wonderful.” And he’s gone, all but running up the steps and out the doors leaving Thancred poleaxed in his wake.

His voice. _His voice._

Immediately his hand goes to his face, a pitiful attempt to hide a sudden blush as Y’shtola claps him on the shoulder, grinning ear to ear.

“Bold, that one.” Urianger muses.

 

When they meet again some few hours later, Valen treats him with a businesslike professionalism betrayed only by the flush in his ears and the stout denial of such coloring.

“I burn easily.” He explains to their associate who inquires politely and waves a hand dismissively, that being the _only_ instance in their entire meeting he refuses to meet Thancred’s eyes. Thancred who is, in no small terms, endlessly amused and utterly flattered. The only advantage over his friend, however, is that he has an enviable poker face.

But, he supposes as he hides a smile and watches Valen hastily change the subject of conversation, honesty can be charming in its own way.

 

There is blood. Near invisible on the ground in the light of an eclipsed sun but it burns into his eyes in stark contrast. Darkened patches splattered here and there. He reasonably knows it is not that much, enough to sting, certainly, but not fatal.

It feels like leagues of it, yalms stretching upon yalms of red seeped into the dirt and all of it from a man- practically a _boy-_ lying ten feet away under the care of a chirurgeon whose face is pinched tight with a fear she’s trying not to show.

His armor has been rendered unusable and will have to be replaced. What metal hasn’t been compromised by Ifrit’s scalding heat is barely clinging to his frame by leather straps that crumble at the touch. He’s alive, he _lived_ , but for a moment he might not have.

 _What were we thinking? What were we_ **_thinking_** _? Sending in an untested man to fight a_ **_god_** _?_

He shifts, circling to get closer, eyes drawn to Valen’s face. He’s unconscious now, a small mercy. He passed as soon as Thancred dealt with the remainder of Ifrit’s worshipers, Amal’jaa who set upon him as soon as he struck the finishing blow to their deity, hellbent on seeking revenge.

His face is a mess of sweat and gore- one clean strike from Ifrit cutting him to the bone of his cheek. Thancred stares, feeling something in his stomach roll at the sight of flesh and fat rent open before him. A face that had been whole only hours ago.

And it claws at him like Ifrit’s nails, deep inside and tearing at his soul. _If he’d been on time…_

 

Y’shtola works her magic and the skills of the Immortal Flames’ healers is nothing to slight. Valen lives, haunted and scarred, but he’ll walk again with sword in hand and be no worse the wear for it. Thancred catches him one morning after he’s only finished washing up, observing himself in the water’s reflection and faintly touching the scar on his left cheek. It’s an ugly thing, some would say, spanning the length of his face as it does and puffy red in its recent application. In time it will fade to something more manageable, this Thancred knows, but that does not stop people from staring at it now.

Does not stop them from flinching.

Valen puts on a brave face, pretends he doesn’t notice just as he pretended with Thancred those many days ago. The bard has an inkling he’s good at poorly hiding a lot of things.

“Well, if you were to ask my humble opinion…” he begins, startling Valen upright as his hand immediately drops. The swordsman has sensed Thancred’s lingering guilt over his late arrival, how he seems to hold himself accountable and has done everything in his power to dissuade that. “The hair could use some work.” When Valen’s expression goes flat, the facial equivalent of an eyeroll, the bard doesn’t bother to hide a his smile. “But the rest of you is… oh, what was your choice of words?” Thancred watches as the expression on Valen’s face shifts, from exasperated to confused, then to dawning realization and a sudden flush that makes his scar darken at the pulse of blood flowing under his veins. Marvelous proof he is still so very much alive. “Ah yes-”

“ _Thancred_.”

“The rest of you is wonderful.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I actually remember the events of early msq in detail? I suuuuure don't. Creative liberties ho!


	2. By The Lance

The first time he learns the true nature of his blessing, he is but a babe with the lance and staring down the polearm of an arrogant Duskwight.

Shuo’li is young by any man’s standards, not yet quite on his eighteenth summer and with a youthful naivete to prove it. When Foulques turns on him, he _knows_ without knowing how he knows it is but a show of strength. All bluster and bravado for the members of the guild present without actual intent to harm. Whether that is a result of Foulques’ intellect- knowing he would not escape with his life if he actually went through with the strike, or cowardice in refusing to shed the blood of a novice- Shuo’li cannot guess.

_He sees a grassy crook in a hill, more brown than green, and an aged tree with bark peeling away from a dying core. The nights are cold and the winds harsh, but nowhere suits him better, he tells himself. Nowhere._

By the time he returns to his senses, Foulques is taking his leave and Ywain is calling for everyone to return to their practice.

“You made no attempt to evade his thrust. Did you opponent so unnerve you as to deprive you of your senses?” Ywain can’t help but ask in the aftermath, making Shuo pause thoughtfully, head tilted in consideration and black tail flicking back and forth.

 _It wasn’t anything like that, but… well…_ As is his nature, the Keeper only shrugs at his guildmaster and smiles serenely, eliciting a weary sigh from the Hyur.

“You’d smile and shrug at Nophica herself if she’d asked you that, I swear.” The man complains, though it is a half-hearted mutter at best. Instead, he unfolds his arms and gives the Miqo’te a weary pat on the head, such closeness unbecoming of a guildmaster and his pupil, but there is a warmth in Shuo’li that evokes such an affectionate manner. True enough, the Keeper smiles brighter and silently laughs, showing fang as he fixes any locks made astray by the touch.

After promising to train hard, the young novice makes plans to stop by the Shaded Bower. A shopkeep there will surely have what he needs.

 

Shuo’li Ukota has never gotten where he wants by being shy. Though given to bouts of overthinking and, as his foster brother likes to call it, guilt-hoarding, he has _never_ been shy.

This, Foulques soon discovers when the Keeper stumbles ass over tail into his encampment and lands in an inglorious heap at the bottom. The Duskwight is on his feet in a breath, spear in hand and book forgotten in the dirt as he stares at his intruder with a wary look, expectant of retaliation.

Shuo, for his own part, can only bare his fangs in aggravation as he brushes thistle and dirt off his chest before slowly clambering to his feet. He is dressed much as he was in the afternoon, only now he is laden with a heavy looking sack and covered in a fine layer of dirt from his tumble. Something, Foulques is faintly bemused to note, that seems to bother the Keeper deeply as he glances at his ass and sees his sleek back tail covered in dust and tangled with all sorts of nature.

“Surely your dam taught you better manners than this.” He insults, smirking when the Miqo’te returns his gaze to him and gives him an exasperated look. As if being called an animal is anything new. “Or is knocking an Eorzean custom?”

Without a moment’s pause, the Miqo’te bends swiftly on one knee- gets caught by the height of his lance- and raps his knuckles against the root of a great tree. When his gaze returns to Foulques’, his smile is crooked, as if to ask: _Happy?_

“How did you find me?” He finds himself asking instead, the brief flicker of amusement fading away into his usual, more aloof disposition. “Tracked me all the way from the city, did you? I’ll give you credit- you’re more clever than those so called lancers of the guild, that’s for sure.”

In accordance to Ywain’s earlier concern, Shuo’li only straightens and rolls his shoulders delicately, smiling contentedly as his tail flicks once- practically teasing. The serene expression is not lost on Foulques whose smirk quickly becomes something more irritated.

“What now then? Here to avenge the insult to your fellow guild members? Do you intend to drag me back to them so I can beg an apology?” The end of his sentence is punctured with a laugh, as if to show Shuo’li _precisely_ what he thinks of that.

 _Barking puppy,_ Shuo’li thinks, rolling his eyes. Instead, the Miqo’te shakes his head and begins stretching, arms looped over his head and reaching towards the sky as he raises himself to the tips of his toes. He bends once, twice, then hops a few times to get himself nice and limber. When that’s finished, he grins at Foulques and points to him, then points to himself and unhooks his lance and settles into position.

 _“Hah!”_ The laugh is sharp and surprising in its intensity. He can’t help the thrill of exhilaration that flows through him at the realization. The pull of _arrogance_ and _satisfaction._ The novice came to _him_ for training. “I knew you were different from the rest.” Foulques praises himself, tightening his hold upon his spear. “I will teach you, then. How to forge _true_ courage.”

 

Shuo’li is a beginner. Ywain had said as much before but Foulques is made to _know_ it in their bouts. He is clumsy in his thrusts, his footwork is crude and his spear is a size too big for him, but what the Miqo’te lacks in technique (Foulques is forced to admit) is more than made up for in sheer tenacity and stamina. The Duskwight beats Shuo’li soundly, wounding him marginally in the process, but the Keeper is on his feet almost immediately and silently demanding a second chance with his eyes.

And then a third… and a fourth, shortly after that.

By the time Shuo’li is satisfied, Foulques is spent and in a foul mood as he collapses by the empty firepit- cold and hungry and drenched in sweat. “Nophica’s tits, enough is _enough_.” He growls, breathing heavy and labored. When Shuo’li doesn’t respond, he raises his head and glowers at the Keeper who is panting, face first in the dirt and eyes closed to the cool breeze. “And _say_ something already.”

At that, Shuo’li raises a single hand and haggardly draws something in the air with a single finger.

In the dim-lighting of falling night, it’s impossible to make out what he’s actually trying to convey, but the message penetrates well enough. “You’re _mute?”_ Foulques demands, groaning when the realization earns him a thumbs up before the hand falls to the earth again. “Incredible.” He mutters, feeling now the fool. He’d just assumed Shuo’li to be one of those silent types. Considering his personality now, however, only shows how clear a contradiction that line of thinking was.

Feeling thoroughly wrung out and too exhausted to even consider the idea of hunting for his supper, instead the Duskwight settles for scrounging up enough kindling to work up a halfway decent fire before calling it a night.

When he returns, however, he finds Shuo’li by the firepit, drinking what appears to be a second vial of mildly luminescent liquid. An alchemical concoction with healing properties, no doubt. Foulques was not gentle on him and each opening that was presented was properly taken advantage of. His armor will need more than a simple patch job and Shuo’li has bled his fare share today.

It would be enough to make anyone surly, resentful even. Foulques knows this is no training method permitted by Gridania’s heralded guilds. But Shuo’li, ever in his curious mannerisms, simply smiles tiredly and moves to stand and help Foulques with the task of getting the fire set up.

“Sit down,” the Duskwight can’t help but snap when the Keeper’s legs betray him and he buckles under the weight of his own body. “And don’t drink those anymore. Too much at once is more poison than aid.” He warns, the concern near reflexive. When his words elicit a warmer smile, Foulques bristles at the implication and instead hurls the wood next to the pit before kneeling down to get started.

It is then he receives another surprise, for as soon as the fire is lit, Shuo’li is digging into his sack and pulling items out one by one. On top is a handful of carefully wrapped articles of food- cheese, bread, fruit and dried strips of venison. Beneath is a waterskin, and further beneath that…

“Oh no, once we’ve eaten, you’re _leaving._ ” Foulques snaps upon seeing the bundled fur, recognizing it for what it is. “This is not some… some _get together of friends._ We are _rivals_ and I am not going to-”

Shuo’li, very much done with his bluff and bluster, shoves a wedge of cheese into Foulques’ mouth and hopes he chokes a little before he begins divvying up the food he brought.

Foulques, to his luck, does indeed choke and is quickly in need of the Miqo’te’s waterskin shortly afterward and a few good pats on the back. The point, the Duskwight is loath to admit, becomes moot after anyway for once they’ve both eaten the tasteless fare, he is too tired to enforce his demand and Shuo’li collapses without even unravelling his bedroll.

Eyeing the Keeper with distaste, Foulques decides it would serve him right if the damn nuisance caught cold for his troubles and goes about preparing his own sleeping arrangements. As he crawls under his own covers, however, it does pinch him a little, seeing how much of the boy’s skin is bare to the elements from all the blows he could not block. _Fool,_ he thinks unkindly and rolls over to avoid looking at him any further.

He does not give his newest pupil enough credit, however, for when he wakes at dawn the Keeper and his belongings are gone, save for a carefully wrapped loaf of bread and the remainder of the cheese from last night’s supper. Beside it, written with a stick, is Shuo’li’s name.

Foulques stares at it for the longest time, then scuffs it away with the toe of his boot and sits down to eat the food that was left with him. He tries to pay no mind to the inadvertent groan that escapes his lips as his body, protesting yesterday’s marathon of training, spasms a little in agony.

Perhaps, today, he will take it easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lbr, Foulques is a dick.


	3. By The Lance (cont'd)

Shuo’li is _not happy_ and he makes sure Foulques knows it as soon as he enters camp. Without warning, the apple is flying through the air and smacks the Duskwight straight on his crown, bouncing off the white of his hair and landing a few feet away.

 _“What in the seven hells-?”_ Foulques snarls, hand flying to the offended spot and whipping around to stare at the indignant Miqo’te as he tramps over a cleared patch of bush he made himself with all his visits. “What are you _doing_?” He growls, moving to his feet and leaving the block of wood he was whittling behind.

Folding his arms and standing his ground- _but gods is Shuo’li the smallest male Miqo’te he’s ever had the displeasure of straining his neck to look down upon-_ the keeper stares back up at the lancer, undaunted. His glare is _furious_ , the set of his mouth even more so and he looks ready to kick Foulques straight in the shin, spears be damned.

One of his eyes still has a smudge of black at the corner, blending in near perfectly with his markings.

 _Ah,_ the realization eases the tension in his shoulders and an easy smirk curls his lips as he brings a hand up to brush a thumb over the darkened spot. Like a child, Shuo’li shoves at his hand, refusing to be petted out of his temperament and scowls when that only seems to amuse the Elezen further.

“Did today’s lesson sit ill, my young pupil?” He inquires, laughing outright when the Miqo’te bodily shoves past him and hurls his sack next to the fire, unfurling his lance with a flourish and moving himself into position. He moves more fluidly with the weapon these days, ever since Foulques took the time to shorten it after one of their bouts. As he stretches the pole across his shoulders and begins his exercises, Foulques rolls his shoulders and does the same, returning to his spot by the fallen log to retrieve his own weapon.

Their spars go longer these days, less in number of wins and losses and more as contests of will- refusal to surrender or succumb. Foulques cannot land as many blows as he once did and Shuo’li has begun to number a few of his own. More than once the older lancer has been forced to venture into Gridania to have his armor mended by one of the guild’s leatherworkers. Yet even then he still refuses to visit the conjurers for his wounds, even when one left him limping for a few days.

A part of him likes to think it is proof of his tutelage. That his method of training is the _true_ path to forging a lancer’s mettle. But as he watches Shuo’li’s growth- watches him improve by leaps and bounds while his own skills remain _stagnant_ \- another, more uneasy part of him begins to question his own capability. Begins to _wonder._

 _No_ , he catches himself thinking after he’s swept the Miqo’te’s feet from beneath him and landed him flat on his back once again. _My way is right._ But when Shuo’li looks up at him with those pale eyes, irises as bright as moonlight and a _knowing_ in his smile, Foulques can’t help but become irritated and defensive.

 

No matter how Foulques rants and rails against it, Shuo’li always ends up spending the night. And, truthfully, the food he brings is a _very_ good encouragement in permitting him. Too often Foulques finds himself looking forward to whatever fare the Keeper brings from Gridania’s kitchens. He is also loathe to admit it brings about a faint note of nostalgia for better days when such things were a common facet of his life.  A part of him feels he should resent Shuo’li for the reminder… but he cannot. (That Shuo’li’s continued presence has also begun to give him comfort doesn’t bear thinking on.)

They eat in silence, tend to their gear and then bank the fire before going to sleep. At first on opposite sides of the pit, but as summer begins to fade and the nights grow colder, Shuo’li is the first to set their rolls side by side and Foulques, too damned miserable against the biting winds, cannot find the resolve to argue it.

He catches himself one morning, having woken before his companion, idly picking twigs and bits of grass from the Miqo’te’s tail in the dullness of exhaustion. He grumbles about it thoughtlessly too, scolding Shuo’li in his head for being a hapless child who cannot even keep themselves tidy. When he realizes what he’s doing, he snatches his hand back as though the fur burns him and throws himself out of his bedroll, half burying Shuo’li in the process and ignoring his startled jerk under a sudden blat of heavy leathers in his face.

 

It is, of course, in the grossest of ironies then that Foulques is the one who takes ill. Disgusted with the aches that pull at his bones and the _bloody snot_ he keeps sneezing out, he refuses to be seen by Shuo’li who will surely come looking for him and spends the rest of the day hiding under his furs. (Except how is he so certain the Miqo’te will come if he does not go to him first? _Bah._ )

Sure enough, by the third day he can hear the telltale sounds of feet stomping undergrowth flat and the rustle of leaves as the intruder hops over a spare bit of twig and bush. Lancers, he is forced to muse, are not a very stealthy lot.

It takes but one look before Shuo’li is immediately setting aside his spear and unfurling his bedroll, spreading its weight over Foulques and building up a fire that has long since burnt out, _tsking_ slightly underbreath.

“Don’t give me that.” He mutters, refusing to acknowledge how nasal his voice has become. Something Shuo’li has no issue soundlessly laughing at. “And go away.” The order is half-hearted, if only because he doesn’t truly mean it and because he knows the Keeper wouldn’t listen to him anyway.

The rest of the day is spent in a daze. He drifts in and out of consciousness, waking only when Shuo’li forces him to sit up and eat a few spoonfuls of something mushy and warm. What it is, is hard to say, because he’s completely lost all sense of taste. Something with fruit, perhaps. Once he’s eaten to his satisfaction, Shuo’li resettles him back under the covers and resumes sitting by the fire, working on a carving Foulques himself had long ago given up on.

The Duskwight tries to hold onto the belief that this relationship will inevitably end in betrayal. In truth, all he wants is to do close his eyes and sleep- so he does.

He wakens in the night, not hale- not by a long shot- but at least no longer miserable beyond all reason. The fire glows dim, down to the last of its embers in the hour before dawn and sputtering a few half-hearted flames. Shuo’li is on the other side of him, permitting him the benefit of the fire’s warmth in its entirety while spooning his side, clothed body pressed against his chest beneath their shared covers.

 _Damn,_ Foulques thinks, closing his eyes and resting his head back against the floor. “You complete fool.” He mutters, exhaling through his mouth and freezing when Shuo’li stirs. He had thought the other asleep, but when his lips curve into a tired smile, he is forced to look away, even as Shuo’li scooches a notch closer and reaches up, having the _gall_ to ruffle the Duskwight’s hair.

“Is _this_ what you’ve done while I’ve slept?” He snaps then, struggling to craft his voice into something accusational- intimidating even. What he manages is a stuffy whine and it shows in the way Shuo’li snorts. “Quit manhandling me you damn feline.”

As if purely in the spirit of spite, Shuo’li huffs his irritation, scooches himself upwards and-

Foulques freezes, the press of the Miqo’te’s dried lips against the skin of his forehead shocking him more effectively than any bucket of ice water. When Shuo’li is finished doing… _whatever_ it is he’s doing, he meets the Elezen’s eyes once more and smiles brightly, irises alight with mischief. As if to say: _Like I need you to be asleep for that._ That complete, he deftly pats the covers up around Foulques’ shoulders, properly bundling him up, before he settles back down and resumes his former position of lying curled up at his side, tiny nose barely poking above the furs.

It is, perhaps, some 10 minutes later before Foulques can finally squawk out a nasally: “What in the seven hells!?”

Shuo’li, seemingly unconscious, gives him no answer. He does, however, smile.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Need to wrap up this bit with Foulques since it takes place before the actual story. Whoop.


	4. By The Knife

They are sending her away. She needs no adult to tell her that.

As she bends on hand and knee in the garden, plucking at budding weeds and tending to the carefully kept flowers of the family manor, she mulls this over with a grim sense of satisfaction and knowing she is right. The servant’s work is, by all technicalities, beneath her, but uncle has never bequeathed upon her the Durendaire name, no matter how her mother has insisted, and she must earn her keep.

Her mother, she has heard her aunts and uncles murmur, is a feckless child whose mistakes must be repaired as swiftly as possible. Thank the Fury, they add, that the war took her father as suddenly as it did. House Durendaire is no place for a man of the Brume, even if he’d earned the honor to bear arms in the name of the Holy See.

At a tender age, Amattienne learned swiftly that this world is too harsh to bother with.

“ _Ammy._ ” Her name is a hissed whisper, furious in its need to get her attention and soft in a try for secrecy. He need not have bothered, for Haurchefant by nature is not very quiet. She looks up from amaryllises and sees the crown of his head and a telltale cowlick of having recently woken or washed. He is gangly, this illegitimate son of Fortemps, but that only means he will grow well.

He is also, in this world of politics and shortcomings, someone who is her friend by virtue of sharing a similar fate. Dusting off her hands and placing the leavings of the garden in the basket at her side, she gets to her feet and hurries over to the gate, knowing no one will think much of two unwanted children speaking. “I thought you were training today.” She accuses, though a smile curls her lips even as she stops in front of him and immediately bundles up a corner of her apron. “And look at you. Might as well come work the soil if you’re going to be as filthy as-” She stops, the smudge on his face she assumed to be dirt affixed permanently to his face as smoothly as a…

His hand settles over hers and his smile is forced.

“... that _bitch._ ” She swears softly underbreath, startling a laugh out of him. She releases the apron and settles cool fingers over the bruise, her look both infuriated and pitying. Her family does not strike her by virtue of being a girl, but that does not mean she believes them to have honor because of it.

“It’s fine. Girls have makeup to hide this sort of thing, right?” He inquires making her gaze turn sharp. “I don’t want father to fight with her again.” He adds, by way of explanation.

“You do the Count no favors, I hope you know.” She warns him. “He should know what manner of woman the Countess has become.” But she presses a quick kiss to his forehead, no longer having to stand on her toes over the gate to do so, before she points to a bench a few feet away. “Wait there, I’ll be quick.” She gathers her skirts up then and dashes away, leather shod feet slapping stone as she makes her way up the stairs to the servants’ entrance and slips past the cooks at work making the midday meal.

She makes it to her room without much difficulty, and though placed out of the way as a testament to the supposed shame of her birth, it offers a grand view of the city as a whole. Her vanity, sparse in comparison to other ladies of her age, is mostly untouched. Amattienne de Durendaire is not, understandably, on many lists of prestigious personages to invite to esteemed gatherings. As such, she has rarely ever had need to make herself pretty. It’s a quick thing to grab her facepaint. Small blessing of the Fury, she supposes, that she and Haurchefant are of similar color. What she would have had to do had they differed, she muses as she makes her way out of her room and shuts the door behind her. Covered it with blush, perhaps. The thought makes her grin a little.

“Darling, there you are!” The coo takes her by surprise and she stiffens, turning just in time to see her mother racing to take her hands, heedless of the clasp of makeup in her palm. “My sweet, I have the _best_ news for you.”

“Mother?” She inquires, struggling to keep a pleasant smile on her face.

“We’ve done it, Amattienne.” She gushes. “I’ve convinced Charlemend just how wonderful a boon you’ll be to the family. He’s agreed to send you to the Observatorium to be trained by Forlemort, your uncle, in astrology. You’ll help your cousins protect Ishgard from the dragons.” She’s ecstatic and rightfully so in her mind. It is proof, she believes, that at long last her daughter has been accepted by the family.

Amattienne, however, knows it for the truth. _They are sending her away._ But her mother, her dear, sweet, naive mother…

“That’s… wonderful. I’ll do my best." She chokes on the words.

 

Haurchefant knows without prompting that something has gone wrong when Amattienne returns and begins to soundlessly dab the pale cream on his skin after taking a seat next to him. “Ammy?” He inquires, gently taking that hand in his own and looking to her face.

“They’re sending me away.” Her words are soft, a secret shared from one struggling child to another. Haurchefant straightens, as though struck by an invisible hand. “They said to the Observatorium, to my great-uncle, but…”

“Is there no chance it’s true?” His words are a furious whisper and she hesitates, before shaking her head.

“The Count will never accept me. My father was lowborn, they were not married, I’m…” She breaks off, her voice growing harsher in its bitterness and she has to press her free hand to her mouth to keep the emotions from choking her. “ _Damn._ ” The oath is all she can say before her throat closes off. She will not cry. _She will not cry._

_It’s not fair._

“... I will come for you.” His words are the only thing she hears over the high winds of The Pillars and she looks up at him, startled eyes of blue meeting the intensity of his. “After I am knighted, I will search all of Eorzea for you, no matter how long it takes, and I will bring you home.”

 _Home._ Her lips curl involuntarily into a twisted smile of disbelief at the word. “You're joking- back here? The Brume? Where in Ishgard would be fit to call my home?”

“With me, in House Fortemps.” He assuages, nodding firmly. “Even if I have to marry you, though I don’t think I would. Father is a kind man.” And he is so earnest, so sweet in his desire to console her that she has to laugh. This dumb, gentle child who is two summers younger than her is so thoroughly determined to protect her, he is making promises he cannot possibly keep.

“Marry me indeed... you daft sod.” She mutters in a hoarse voice.

“Only if I have to, though. You can’t cook at all.” The insult is a planned one and he grins wildly when her head snaps up and she immediately takes a swing at his head which he predictably ducks.

“Well _excuse me_ my lord, but your brothers seemed to find those buns just fine enough for their tastes.” But even she can’t find the heart to deny the weak smile that curls her mouth. No one has had more success in finding their way to her heart than Haurchefant.

“Artoirel told me later he thinks they made him sick. Did you know the center of his wasn’t cooked all the way through? I think he was impressed because the outside was completely black-” She smacks his thigh hard enough to sting and he laughs.

“Well at least he was mannerly enough to not say it to my face, you farce of a gentleman.” She huffs and settles back. “... fine, I’ll think on it.”

“The buns or-?”

“Will you forget the damned buns, Fortemps!” She snaps prompting another laugh out of him. “On your promise.” She clarifies then, letting out a soft breath. “When we’re both grown and you’ve found me again, I’ll _consider_ returning to Ishgard with you.”

“I’ll make it worth your while.” He promises, earning a wry look.

“Yes, I know you will.” Her honesty takes him by surprise and she reaches down to take his hand in her own. “But until then, grow strong.”

“If I can match but a fraction of your strength, Ammy, I’ll be plenty strong enough.” And he raises their hands to kiss the back of her knuckles. “I _will_ come for you.”

 _Sweet child_ , she thinks, watching him do it before closing her eyes. _Too sweet for this undeserving world._ It's a fool's hope he's giving her, especially when the future is uncertain as it is, but she can't deny it is hope he's offered her all the same. To begrudge that would be pointless. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is wondering, Amattienne does not end up with Haurchefant. They’re dear childhood friends and little more. That agony is reserved for someone else.
> 
> Amaryllis is a flower symbolic of _splendid beauty._ It is also used to indicate _worth beyond beauty._


	5. By The Knife (cont'd)

She’s given only a few days to prepare for the trip south, and even then her uncle acts as though it is an act of supreme generosity rather than the convenience of the first caravan out the gates. Her mother gushes all the way, thoroughly rushed but ecstatic nonetheless at her perceived success in forcing the family to accept her bastard child.

She doesn’t stop to think it unusual that Amattienne will not be sent to the Athenaeum Astrologicum to be properly educated first, nor has she bothered to consider that not once has her daughter ever expressed an interest in astrology to begin with. Not, of course, that it matters should a properly reared child have an inclination or not. It is proof of her mother’s belief that Amattienne belongs with her cousins that she does not ask. A highborn heir does not question, after all, they do only as they are bid.

“M’lady need not pack overmuch. The Observatorium will provide all you’ll require.” An elderly servant remarks as she places her bag upon the bed and straightens to consider her belongings. She has more than she realized- her mother did her best to spoil her with lacy things and heaps of jewelry.

 _“To catch the eye of a lucky suitor,”_ she’d insisted.

“I’m a woman, Cedric.” She replies instead, not bothering to look at the man as she places her hands on her hips and considers what she can easily carry and what will become too much. “I’ll need at least a few things if I’m to survive out there.” And when she turns to give him a piercing look over her shoulder, she finds he will not meet her eyes. _He knows._ Were she younger, still more given to faith in others, she might have felt a surge of bitterness.

But she is not and the only strength she can call her own is in her refusal to allow the actions of others to hurt her any more deeply than she is already scarred.

“I won’t need your help for this. If you wish to inspect the jewels after I’ve left to ensure they’re all there, you may do so when I’m properly gone.” She remarks, waving her hand dismissively. She doesn’t see his reaction to her accusation, would like to imagine he had the decency to flush at the truth of it but knows he likely did not react at all. It is no small secret that they all think her a thief, a scoundrel and a beggar. Her father was of the Brume, after all, so how could she not share in their flaws?

Only when she hears the door close does she fall to her knees, skirts a pooled mess about her legs as she stares at the threads of the carpet and plucks at them dully. She’s exhausted, her heart threatening a thousand things at once and only a carefully constructed veil of apathy is keeping her together. She isn’t sure if she’s on the brink of collapsing into tears or grabbing a hairpin and stabbing her uncle right where his heart should be.

“Whoreson.” She whispers, closing her burning eyes and letting out a shaky breath. “If you’d just accepted me, none of this would have come about. You wouldn’t have even had to give me special treatment. If you’d just bloody claimed me as kin, no one would have had the stones to even…” But wishes are stars and, as her relatives liked to say, fell more often than you’d think.

She’s running out of time.

Raising her eyes, she slips to her feet and nearly stumbles on the hem of her gown. Eyeing it with distaste, she looks to her closet and shakes her head. “Right, I suppose we’ll start there.” Dresses will absolutely be the last damned thing she takes.

 

In the end, she has one suitcase and one satchel. Far less than any assumed her to have, but Amattienne has resolved to take no more than she alone can manage. She was not fully honest with Cedric, she did take a small handful of jewels, but they belong to an aunt who is an absolute harpy and has more than once referred to Haurchefant as “ _Count Edmont’s mongrel._ ” Those she’s stowed away in the padding of a pair of overly large boots and will be used to barter her way to wherever she needs once they’ve disposed of her.

As a family knight, one assigned to her as an escort for the purposes of this trip, loads her luggage aboard the cart, her mother touches her cheek in concern. “Only a single man? Brother, surely we can spare a few more to safeguard Amattienne’s journey. It’s not overly far to the Observatorium and-”

“You must needs not overworry.” Her uncle interrupts, voice stern and not to be questioned. “As you said, it is not far and she will be travelling with the merchant and his guards. One is sufficient.” His tone brokers no room for argument and from the way her mother wilts, she can see that the debate is at an end, short lived as it was.

Count Charlemend de Durendaire is not a gentle soul, not anymore. Not since the death of his eldest 5 years ago. He is also, Amattienne has learned over the years, ruthless in the preservation of what remains of his family. When he turns his eyes upon her, there is cold steel within them, enough for her to know thoroughly where she stands. She is not a Durendaire and her continued presence endangers her mother. There is talk amongst the servants that he is hoping to have her marry a man of reputable nature- a son of one of the four houses most likely. Perhaps House Dzemael. If that is to happen, the stain of her mother’s tryst cannot remain. Amattienne must go.

It is knowing this that she is fearless when she meets his eyes. She does not flinch from that cold look, she _refuses._

 _You condemn me for your pride. Look into my eyes and_ **_remember_ ** _this is the price of your satisfaction,_ she thinks at him fiercely. It is, perhaps, arrogance that she believes she amounts to so much, but she thinks it all the same. She _could_ have been a boon to the family. She _could_ have made Durendaire a name to remember of her generation. Now, they will never know. Her only victory is in forcing her uncle to look away first.

“Darling, I have something for you.” Her mother takes her attention, though only after the Count has taken her escort aside to murmur something into his ear. When she looks up at the woman, she is resigned to see the tears in her eyes. “Here, I consulted every member of the family I could. They all agree this is of the best make. I… I wanted to make sure you had every advantage I could provide you.” She hands the box to Amattienne who takes it with hesitant fingers.

Carefully, for the item has weight to it, she pulls the lid off the wooden box and finds- “Oh mother…” She whispers, closing her eyes as a lance of pain shoots through her. It is a sextant, a tool used to measure the stars. Her mother is a complete fool.

“Do you like it?” She presses, desperate for approval. She has always been seeking the blessing of others since the death of her beloved.

“... yes, of course.” How could Amattienne answer otherwise? Carefully replacing the lid, she sets it aside and wraps her arms around her mother’s shoulders. When did she become tall enough to do so with ease? When did her mother’s frame become so thin? “Take care of yourself, alright? Don’t let them bully you.”

Her mother hesitates, the fingers she presses to Amattienne’s back trembling. “I suppose I must do as you say. Elsewise you’re likely to come riding back here at breakneck speed to scold them all on my behalf.”

“You’re damn right I would.” She promises, startling a watery laugh out of her mother.

“You’ve your father’s foul mouth.” She murmurs, finally pulling back and pressing a hand to her daughter’s cheek. “Make me proud, Ammy.”

Unable to promise her aloud and knowing it to be a blatant lie, she can only nod and press a hand over her mother’s, wishing desperately they would never part. It is a child’s desire and shortly she’s forced to step back and pull herself onto the caravan. No one offers her a hand in doing so and she does not ask for it.

“Be safe.”

 

They are stopped at the Gates of Judgement and all too keenly Amattienne is reminded of the uncomfortable fact that she might not even live to see beyond Coerthas. That this knight who accompanies her may be under orders to end the legacy of her mother’s affair in a more permanent manner. Her fears are waylaid, however, the moment she sees who it is that waits at the gates leading to the Central Highlands.

“My lords, we are on a schedule-” Her escort protests, only to be silenced by an icy glare befitting the heir of House Fortemps.

“You will hold your tongue.” Artoirel commands before, as if in dismissal, he turns his gaze away from the man before he has time to argue. “Lady Amattienne.”

“Lord Atoirel.” She responds, just as civil before her eyes leap to Haurchefant. “You should not be here.”

“We’re returning from a bit of hunting. This is a complete coincidence.” He insists, earning a snort from her guard who has, seemingly, given up on the entirety of pretense. Nudging his chocobo closer to the caravan, a handsome looking creature with a fine plumage, he stops it close enough that he can speak quietly for her ears and hers alone. “We’re not allowed to come with you. Father would throw a fit if he found we’d gone past Camp Dragonhead.”

“Your father or the Countess?” She retorts, eyes flicking to Artoirel whose lips thin slightly. Evidently, they’re not quite as quiet as they’d like.

When Haurchefant only offers the most diplomatic of shrugs, Amattienne has to smile a little. “Thank you for coming to say goodbye.” She tells him.

“It is only for a little while.” He reminds her and reaches forward, taking her hand into his own and pressing something into it. “Until then, you must wait for me.” And he’s pressing a kiss to her knuckles before he kicks his chocobo into a trot back over the Steps of Faith.

She stares at him go, a little dazed at his abrupt departure, before Artoirel intervenes. “He’s been struggling not to weep. He holds you dear.” He informs her, making her start before she looks away, fighting to hide a flush. In the moment of peace that follows, she looks at what he pressed into her palm and has to fight a laugh.

“How like him.” She whispers, turning the plain dagger over in her hands and running her fingers over the leather hilt.

“Twas father’s first gift to him. He’s treasured it since.” Atoirel remarks, finally prompting her gaze. When her eyes meet his own, he is forced to admit her smile is no longer the weak thing she greeted them with. In the wake of Haurchefant’s kindness, it is radiant.

“Thank him for me, will you? And tell him he’s a heel for running off before I could do it myself.” When he inclines his head towards her, she returns the gesture. “And thank you, Lord Artoirel, for taking the time to come with him.” When he doesn’t react to her words, her gaze hardens a little and her eyes look back to the bridge. “Be kind to him from time to time. If you find it difficult, remember that it is not a matter of blood or politics, but that he would give his life for yours if duty demanded it.”

“... do you think so?” He inquires after a moment, moving his mount reunite their eyes clearly. This time, when their gazes meet, she does not shy from him and instead looks into the blue of his irises, fearless.

“Do you think not?” She puts the question to him and only feels satisfaction when he nods after a moment. Perhaps, feeling that this conversation has become too personal for his tastes, he instead turns his eyes upon her guard who has done his best not to overhear what is a glaringly public conversation.

“You there, I would have your name.” He commands, every bit the arrogant lord once more.

The Elezen in question raises an eyebrow, bundling the reigns of his chocobo in one hand before bowing his head in the barest gesture of respect. “Quimperain, my lord.”

When Artoirel nods again, Amattienne wonders if he is aware he is gripping the straps of his lead a little too tightly. “The lady is to reach the Observatorium unharmed. If anything befalls her on the way- I will hold you to account.” And then, with only the smallest of courtesies, he offers Amattienne a quick salute before turning his chocobo in the direction of the gates and nudges it forward, setting off at a far more sedate pace than his brother.

“Fury take me.” Quimperain mutters once he's out of ear shot, resettling himself and gesturing to the caravan driver. “Let’s go before they march the entire High House after us next.” He orders, leaving Amattienne to laugh silently on the back of the cart.

 

Quimperain’s shoulders grow hunched and diminutive the closer they get to the Observatorium. When they ride on through without stopping, his gaze flickers to her in anticipation for a question he believes to be coming, but she says nothing at all. The caravan takes them further beyond, out the gates and towards Gridania, and only when the towers are out of sight do his shoulders then slump forward. Perhaps in both relief and guilt.

Gridania is not so bad, she supposes in the meantime. It is close enough that their customs are likely to be similar, and they’re heralded for their woodwork and mastery of leather. It would be simple enough for her to pick up a trade and learn to make a living off of it. If nothing else, she might find work as a conjurer, though Fury help her- she’s as much interest in healing the sick as she has in astrology… which is to say none at all. As hilly terrain becomes the Twelveswood, thick in its leaves and rich in its streams, she takes the time to observe the beauty of the forest and tries not to think about how this will soon be her home.

“My lady?” She didn’t notice Quimperain come up beside her, gently kneeing his chocobo into a languid pace matching that of the cart's. “You’ve been rather quiet this whole trip.”

“You mean I’ve not called you out on your deceit.” She replies unabashedly, smiling wryly when he flushes. “You’ve nothing to fear, Quimperain. This was in motion long before my uncle asked you to take on this task. I knew full well I was never to become an astrologian.” Her admission surprises her only in how easy she says it. If those of House Durendaire are proficient at declaring the future, perhaps it is fitting then that this is the only thing she can be certain of. Whatever lies in her journey, a life of reading the stars is most certainly not it.

“Then, with all due respect, what is it you plan to do?” He inquires, startling a reflexive shrug out of her. It is, perhaps, defensive in nature, but there is aught else she can do.

“I will make do.” Is all she’s willing to say on the matter, and Quimperain frowns for he sees what such words truly mean- she has no idea.

The Lady Amattienne may indeed by strong of spirit, but in the thinness of her shoulders and the slight of her frame, she is still so very young in years. Much too young to suddenly be thrust into the wilderness on her own with no one to call on for aid. He is suddenly gripped by a shame that keeps him from meeting her eyes, even when she looks to him with a smile that is pitiful in comparison to the brilliance she gave the second son of Count Edmont.

He nods, for that is all he can do, but in his mind his thoughts race. Is there nothing he can do to ease her passage…?

 

“I beg your pardon?” Quimperain is appalled. The Padjali he speaks with is adamant. He points to Amattienne and says, in no uncertain terms-

“She may not reside within the Twelveswood.”

“What the _devil_ do you mean by this insult, Gridanian?” Her knight protests, whether in fury for her sake or in panic at the upset to his orders, Amattienne cannot guess. She is too busy trying to calm the roar in her ears that deafens everything around her. It is one thing to be insulted by her uncle- a man who has never once shown her an ounce of compassion- and another entirely to be refuted by a complete stranger. By… _make-believe spirits._

“My words are not meant to offend, but the Elementals are clear in their voice. This woman is not to remain under the boughs of the Shroud.” E-Una-Kotor does not hesitate, does not once permit uncertainty to veil his words. His message is both succinct and utterly blunt. He then turns upon her and his expression softens, as though he is aware of just how terribly he has hurt her. “You may find succor in lands beyond- Thanalan perhaps.”

“You would have me take her to that desert wasteland full of cutthroats and gil-hoarders?” Quimperain’s voice is full of true outrage now, as though the very thought of travelling to Ul’dah is unthinkable.

_Thanalan is so very far away from Coerthas._

“That is enough, Quimperain.” Her voice is distant to her ears and sounds so very strange. The Elezen halts mid-rant, turning upon her and hesitating. There is something so cold about her at this moment. “You have done your duty. I will find my way from here.” She commands him, slowly moving to her feet. The caravan that had born her here has long since departed, off to unload its goods and carry its next batch to… wherever. She does not know. She had held polite conversation with the driver on the way here, but for the life of her she does not remember a word of it now.

_It is very cold for such a warm day._

“But, my lady…”

“I will do this on my own.” She insists, stooping to pick up her case and turns to E-Una-Kotor. “If it does not offend these Spirits of yours, might I be allowed to stay a night to regain my strength and plan my next course of action? Once I’ve settled on a destination, I will leave the Shroud with all due haste.”

She has turned on her heel before the Padjali has even finished nodding, a holstery close to the entrance of the city her goal. It had the look of a well-visited location, by both locals and foreigners aplenty. There, she wagers, she’ll find a place where she can spend the night and decide her next course of action.

Perhaps she ought to take the Padjali’s advice and consider Ul’dah. It is rougher, certainly, but where worth is decided by coin, she can surely manage something. The alternative is Limsa Lominsa, home of pirates and rogues. She is just as likely to be swindled there as she is Ul’dah, but at least in Ul’dah the nights are warm if she must sleep upon the streets.

She stops short, her entire body numb.

“My lady.” Quimperain is in front of her then, reaching for her. She had thought him gone, left to return _home-_

_“With me, in House Fortemps.”_

The case drops from her fingers and she falls to her knees, a hand pressed to her lips to keep the screams in her throat from slipping out. Rage and anger and grief, all encompassed into one and it burns her to the very core as tears spill out. She shuts her eyes too, doing all she can to keep her emotions locked inside and knows she is failing.

When the first choke slips past her fingers, Quimperain is moving before he can even think- arms sliding about her shaking body and holding her close. The move dislodges her hands and the cry breaks free- clearer. He wants to tell her he’s sorry… that all will be made right- but they are both inadequate in their meaning. And so he holds her, because he knows not what else he can do as she battles her grief.

 

“I’ve secured us lodgings for the night.” Quimperain’s voice is infuriatingly soft, as is his handling of her as he takes a seat at her side- as though she is like to fall apart at any moment. That she broke down in the streets of Gridania is shameful enough, but to be reminded of it at every moment is even more galling. She supposes she should be grateful for his consideration, but truthfully she’d rather forget the world existed at all right now.

She nods to let him know she heard and slowly moves to her feet. When her hands reach for her case, he is already there and lifting it off the floor. That, she knows, will not do. She is under no illusions and knows Quimperain will not remain by her side forever. She must get by on her own. So she leans forward, firmly takes it from his grip and straightens, giving herself a regal bearing she does not truly feel. She did not pack much- a few practical clothes and the handful of possessions she could not bear to leave behind. Birthday and Starlight gifts from her mother and Haurchefant mostly. Because of her foresight, the case’s weight is easy to bear, certainly much easier than the weight on her heart.

“Hullo miss.” The innkeep greets her with a small wave. “I’ll just need you to sign your name here. Tis custom that only adventurers are permitted in The Roost, but Mother tells us we’re making an exception for you.” He tells her cheerfully, heedless of her demeanor. As he places the book and quill before her, he points to the next available blank line and taps it with a long finger. “Just pen it in here and you can take it easy for the rest of the night.”

For a moment Amattienne can only look at the book in a daze before she reaches for the pen and begins to scrawl in her name, purely out of habit. She gets as far as the D in Durendaire before she’s freezing, every nerve in her body turning ice cold with a fury that would rival Halone herself. With a vengeance, she scratches the entirety of her name out and near rips the page in the process.

“Uh… ma’am?”

“Excuse me, I made a mistake and I’m quite particular about my penmanship.” She responds without looking up. Instead, she flourishes a simple _Ammy_ onto the page and slaps the quill down. “I beg your pardon, but I’m quite exhausted. May I be pointed in the direction of my room?” When the innkeeper points, his gaze more than a little astonished, she merely curtseys a silent thanks before striding down the hallway.

“... quite the fuse on that one, isn’t there?” He inquires of Quimperain after she’s out of sight.

“You will refer to my lady respectfully or keep that insolent tongue of yours in cheek, _am I clear._ ” Despite the phrasing, it is not a question as the knight pens in his own namesake before snapping the book shut and all but shoving it into the man’s waiting hands. “I bid you a good night.”

After he’s left, the innkeeper shares a look with an adventurer who bore witness to the whole exchange, utterly gobsmacked. “... was it something I said?”

The Plainsfolk can only shrug, having no more answers than him. “Ishgardians.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'know, the backstories were only supposed to be two chapters apiece. C'mon brain, get it together.


	6. By The Dagger

It is the Gods’ truth that Baderon has a time of it, keeping his patrons’ drunken hands off his staff. Solune alone garners more than her fair share of the attention, with _“Skin like moonlight,”_ and _“Hair the color of pearls.”_

Sotted dolts.

So when Ayla, as she’s wont to be called, comes to him begging work and looking up at him with earnest eyes, he finds himself hesitating. She’s a slip of exotic in her, Doman he’d wager by her features and the darkness of her hair, and Llymlaen only knows she’d double his difficulties tenfold. But despite the tidiness in her appearance, it takes only a cursory glance at her slippers beneath the folds of her skirts- _dusted and near falling apart-_ to know the true state of her affairs. Ayla is struggling and needs gil to make ends meet. If he turns her away, she’d just as likely never find another opportunity. Not with rumors of traffickers on the rise.

Oh there’ll always be flesh dealers in Limsa Lominsa, no doubt about it, but it’s their more recent activities that has Baderon hesitating. He’d surely lose sleep over it if the poor girl went missing. And so with a sigh that could propel sails, he nods and bids her to find an apron in the back and seek out Solune to learn the ropes. Ayla’s easy, affectionate manner comforts him about the decision immediately as she lets out a delighted whoop and rushes to do as bid. He is, admittedly, a bit startled at how swiftly she moves.

Solune, Ayla quickly learns, is _beautiful._ It is in the angles of her face, the clearness of her eyes and the way she carries herself. She stares up at the Elezen in awe and forgets herself momentarily until the woman is giving her the briefest of smiles, lips curling at the corners, and waving a hand in front of the Midlander’s face.

“You alright there, lass?” She inquires, voice smooth and pleasant to the ears and Ayla thinks she could listen to it _forever._ At her swift nod, the Elezen’s smile widens a fraction and she gestures to the establishment that is the Drowning Wench. “We’re open at all hours so you’d best be wearin’ shoes as won’t hurt your feet. Ask Baderon for your shifts or tell him if you’ve family to keep at home. Don’t let his easy smile and way with words fool you- he’s strict as he needs.” She walks Ayla around the tables and points this way and that as she talks.

Ayla nearly trips over a chair trying to listen.

“Don’t let these folk rush you about either. Go slow at first, practice will help you along until you know these tables by heart.” Solune adds, righting the chair without skipping a beat or even looking at it. “And if anyone gives you any trouble, tell ‘em you’re new and learning your ways around. Make up a sob story if you have to, but only the one. We see a lot of faces around here regular like and they’ll catch a lie if you spin it too big, but a sad tale of a wee mot like yourself will make ‘em sympathetic, especially if they’re sotted.” And then, like a secret, she leans in and offers the Hyur a wink. “And sotted, sympathetic folk tip best.”

Ayla quite honestly thinks she might be in love.

 

In truth, Baderon need not have worried overmuch. Solune has always been gifted at handling herself around drunken hands, neatly patting them back into place or slipping out of them like a fish. It is Ayla who surprises him most, for her deftness in movement is far more than quick footwork, and she dodges grasping fingers easily without slowing her pace. Any mistakes she makes are from the honesty of being unfamiliar with the business but she learns quickly as is always terribly contrite.

For the first few nights, he has one of the adventurers he knows to be sound walk Ayla home. Aarden is his name, a bookish sort from the Arcanists’ Guild who comes ‘round because he likes the food and always orders himself a water or juice to accompany it. He does not, he has explained on more than one occasion, care for drink as he has much to do and not the time to waste on being dulled by ale. And, true to that story, he is always nose deep in his books when he comes. Baderon suspects he’s even nose deep in a text when he bathes, the crazy fool.

Aarden accepts the task graciously despite having so much on his plate and takes the opportunity to ask Ayla about her heritage. When he learns she was born in Limsa, he is not the least bit deterred- asking instead the habits of her parents.

It is through Aarden’s gentle prying that both Baderon and Solune learn the truth- Ayla is half and half. Her mother come fleeing the Garleans and her father an envoy of Limsa, which is how she came to be here in the first place. That her parents are gone now is little surprise, she’d not be working for Baderon at such a tender age otherwise. That her mother was a refugee is more the shock.

Aarden, who is seemingly focused on the task of learning Doman cuisine and the food her mother would once make for her, sidesteps the soreness of a proverbial landmine with a little more grace than Baderon suspects to be accidental. Indeed, upon his return after escorting her one night, he admits as much when the barkeep presses him.

“We’ve all our secrets and troubles,” he says wisely as he sips at his chilled cider. “It's easy enough to pick up on when you’ve begun to prick the edges of one. Especially with an open book such as her.” He adds, tapping the cover of his own index and smiling when Solune sighs softly at the pun.

 

Baderon hates being right and then he _hates being right._

When neither Solune nor Ayla show up the next day for work, his first inclination is worry. One or the other might run a few minutes late, deterred by one mishap or another, but for both to be deterred by _bells_ is another thing entirely. He cannot leave the bar and he’s buried under a mountain of requests, so he instead sends two runners out to inquire for him in his place. One to the Yellowjackets, another to the Convent. He’s ties to both and he wants his girls _found._

 

In truth, both the Yellowjackets and the Dutiful Sisters thinks he might needn’t have bothered. By the time they’ve gone through the rigamarole of questioning potential witnesses, eliminating unlikely hideouts and actually getting to the damn place, Bochard says all the girls had left behind for them to find is two bodies and a bunch of frazzled pirates who had no idea how their “cargo” had gone and vanished into thin air on them.

The girls themselves had been in the middle of attempting to book passage aboard a ferry at Aleport to take them back to town. Baderon, when he had heard that, couldn’t decide if he wanted to laugh himself hoarse or grab a flagon and pour himself a drink. Both, maybe.

Ayla recounts the tale to him back at the Drowning Wench, surrounded on both sides by both the Yellowjackets and those of the Rogue’s Guild. She tells how Solune had hidden a dagger in her boot that they had missed- how she had bid Ayla fetch it for her so that she could cut both their ties. Then, when the guards had come into the room and found them missing, they’d knifed one and knocked out the other with a rock. After that, it had been the simple matter of skirting patrols and making it outside- terribly easy with how drunk they all were.

There is a part of the tale Ayla rushes over, Baderon notices. The Rogues note it too, interestingly enough, and Bochard shares a look with a younger lad wearing the greens- Jacke, his name was. As the Yellowjackets go about asking the details, it is time, Baderon thinks, that he checks up on his other girl.

Solune is busy washing up in the back and putting on a change of clothes. When she had walked into the Drowning Wench with her front smeared in drying blood, it hadn’t taken a scholar to know who had done the stabbing. She wouldn’t meet his eyes either, a harshness in her face as she stared down at the cobblestones as she rushed past him, eager to put herself out of sight.

He knocks on the door to the staffroom, wanting to make sure she’s decent before carefully opening the door. “Solune?” He calls out. He finds her staring at her hands, the dress she’d been wearing earlier heaped in a pile in a corner. He hadn’t had much to spare in the way of clothing, but he can’t deny slacks seem to suit her personality better.

She turns to look at him, her face an odd thing of composure as she considers him. As she shifts, he can see what it is that caught her attention so- a small, plain dagger in the center of her palm, the leather wrapped hilt a bit worn but painstakingly cared for. “Yes, Baderon?” She inquires, coming out of her reverie and carefully replacing it in her boot.

“You alright lass? That was quite the ordeal you went through.”

“I’m alright.” She responds, voice a little softer in the face of his concern. “I’m not young enough to pretend these sorts of things don’t happen.” She adds while tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Lacking anything else to do with her hands, she opts to fold them and leans against a keg of ale. “It was unpleasant, tis all.”

“Aye, I’ll wager it was.” He hesitates, then rubs at his face- calloused fingers scratching at his beard. “I don’t mean to pry, but there’s a question I’m wanting to ask. Somethin’ about what happened…” When she gestures him with a hand to continue, he nods a note awkwardly. “Ayla said when the guards came for the two of you, she knocked one out.” When Solune won’t meet his eyes, he knows he’s stumbled upon the heart of it. “But the Jackets… well they said they found two bodies.” When she still says nothing, something in him pinches a little. “Sol, girl…”

“We needed time to find the entrance to the caves.” Solune murmurs and he stops. “I didn’t know how long he would be out. I had… to make sure.” The defense sounds so feeble in her ears and she exhales, hand coming up to her face as though that will help with the guilt that sits in her veins.

When Baderon’s heavy hands settle upon her shoulders, she glances down at him and finds him giving her something of a sad smile. “You’ve remorse for him, tis more than that sorry shite deserves and says more about you than anything else.”

“Aye, that it does.” A voice interrupts and the two of them jump, eyes whipping to the entrance. It’s Jacke who stands there, casual in his manner as he eyes Solune up and down with a critical eye. Not the appraising one of a lecher, but more considering her in entirety. “You’ve the fine makings of a rogue, lass. You ought to consider joining the guild.”

“Now hold on you- this was a private conversation.” Baderon snaps.

“Y’might have considered shuttin’ this then.” Jacke replies cheekily, rapping his knuckles against the door to the storeroom. “Asides, I was wanting to ask about that m’self. Tis one thing to gut a cove whilst he’s standin’ on his own two legs and another when flat on his back and out of sorts.” When Solune meets his eyes squarely at the words, he finds he likes her even more. “Twas a hard decision y’made, and you’ve shown you’ve the proper remorse over takin’ a life. Ye also managed yer way through the dark without makin’ anymore friends. That’s got me thinkin’ yer light on yer waddles.”

“... I’m sorry, I don’t understand a thing you’re saying.” Solune says after a moment, giving him a pained look.

“He says you’re light on your feet and good with knives, right?” Ayla inquires, showing up underneath his arm and making Jacke start.

“ _Swivvin’ whoresons_ \- where in the seven hells did _you_ come from!?”

“Mother’s mercy…” Baderon whispers, palming his face and dragging his hand down and Solune has to crack a grin.

“Well?” Ayla asks then, turning to look at Solune. “Will you do it?” When the Elezen folds her arms and looks at Baderon, he eyes her back and ends up shrugging.

“They’re not a bad lot and you _are_ a roguish sort.” He admits after a moment, making her smile wryly. “Don’t think I don’t notice you filching sweets.” He admonishes and she hides a laugh.

“Aye, but only after the fact.”

“Now hold on Jacke- y’can’t just go and invite whomever ye please to the guild-” That’s Bochard behind Jacke and Baderon has officially had enough.

“That’s it, all of you- _get out of my storeroom!_ ”

Ayla catches Solune’s arm on the way out. “I’ll come with you.” When Solune looks down at her, startled, she finds the girl has a fierceness about her.

“Ayla, that’s not a decision you should make lightly.” Solune chastises. “They’re a hard lot and we’ve only seen a scratch of the work they do. You ought to-”

“There was a shoe in that room.” Her words stop the Elezen short and Ayla nods, the smile fading into something a little more serious. “It was small, for a Lalafell maybe.” She nods again and her grip on Solune’s arm tightens. “We weren’t the first ones in there, were we?” When Solune doesn’t answer, Ayla decides she doesn’t need her to. Not when the truth is so glaringly obvious. “The Yellowjackets came for us, that’s true, but it’s the Rogues who will go after them.”

“Technically, the Jackets will try too.” Solune feels the need to point out and Ayla only shakes her head.

“When they go too far, cross too many borders, soldiers have to give up.” She says with feeling and Solune can’t find it in her to deny that. “But a rogue… a rogue doesn’t care about the law. A rogue might have a better chance of finding them. Do you think they’ll take me too?” The shift in topics gives Solune whiplash and it takes her a moment to realize Ayla is talking about the Dutiful Sisters. With a sigh, she reaches up and puts her arm around the Midlander before guiding her out of the backroom.

“Well you’re the one who kept us from getting caught in those caves.” She points out wryly. “And you just put that little shite in his place. I’m thinking there isn’t a damned reason for refusing you. Let’s go tell Baderon, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *checks notes* Wait- how did I end up making nearly every female character from Limsa?


	7. By The Bow

He woke in waves to the world ending around him.

The first thing he became keenly aware of was the sensation of water lapping at his fingers, a tentative pool of water centered about his body and unnaturally warm. As though the very earth itself were the source of its heat.

The second was the sword.

In an instant he was on his feet, choking and disorientated. Legs that had been unused for-  _ how long has it been?  _ **_How long has it been?_ ** _ \-  _ buckled beneath him, sending him splashing headfirst back into the muddied water beneath his feet. As his hands dipped beneath the surface of the water once more, he knew then his error. It wasn’t warm- it was  _ scalding. _

And still the pain did nothing to abate the yearning within him. An endless, fervent chant- promising him a solution to the emptiness that ached like a wound behind his eyes. Even now, even  _ knowing _ what the sword was, his fingers still yearned to close about its hilt- to feel its weightless strength in his hand as he took to the field once more. Powerful and unyielding to any who-

His hand closed about his wrist, grip like a vice and bruising.

“Never again.” He whispered, raising his eyes to the sword still in its resting place. The ground beneath his feet shook, another explosion going off somewhere in the distance. “Do you  _ hear _ me?” He staggered to his feet, this time staying upon them even as the woods around him glowed bright with the ravages of fire. And as if in promise to himself, he stumbled from that clearing, never once looking back.

 

_ In an empire gifted with brilliant minds aplenty, any who lacked the passion or innate talent to work with its technology soon fell by the wayside. It was how he soon earned himself the inglorious position of a soldier- fit for nothing else but to die upon the frontlines. It was irony, he supposed, that he should manage to align his enlistment along with one who would swiftly become heralded as the Empire’s most gifted warrior, and that she would be compassionate to boot. _

_ Bereft of the chance to prove himself worthy and the ability to hate her, he resigned himself to being mediocre at best and put himself to what he knew best- weaving his way with words. _

_ Mistaking his easy-going nature for friendship, she befriended him quickly, and in time bemused tolerance turned genuine. She risked her life for his, placed her more highly valued well-being on the line to see him home. To keep him at her side so that they might see tomorrow together. And Hydaelyn, she was sweet. So kind and giving to any who needed her yet keeping nothing for herself. _

_ The first time he forgot his words was because of her. When a fellow soldier dared to criticize her in his presence, his fist was flying against the woman’s face before he could stop himself, staggering the speaker of such vile talk. Not that it mattered, truly, because he had always been an utterly unremarkable soldier and she returned the blow tenfold. _

_ He made her cry, unintentionally. She visited him in the infirmary afterward, him a sorry sight of black eyes and a broken arm. She wept and told him to never put himself out like that for her again. He looked at her, grief and guilt in her eyes over his state, and resolutely refused. “For you, my friend, anything.” _

_ Even heroes needed a helping hand. _

_ The second time he forgot his words, it was because of  _ **_her._ ** _ She was a noble lady in both personage and heritage. Young but passionate, her will was steady and her courage unfailing. He fell at once and couldn’t seem to discover how to get back up. He put his all into courting her, lavishing upon her ears every suitable ballad and poem he could conjure- and the gods as his witness there was no end to them. His mind flew at the sight of her, ensuring he was never without a few well-versed, complimentary verses for her when they met again. _

_ She was amused at first, but in a time where all that is valued is strength and machinery, the art of a poet had long fallen into disuse and he had earned a chance to shine. He wooed her, and though a marriage could hardly happen while he a soldier and her in such a tenuous position at court, neither would be denied. He loved her with all his heart and strove to become an even better warrior, so that one day he might be heralded as a hero himself. _

_ Who could refuse their union then? _

_ The discovery of his gift had truly seemed as a blessing then. The power to refute eikons their influence- to turn it back on them? All at once he was the focus of every brilliant mind that had once belittled his meagre talents. Something innate within him- something as easy as breathing- had easily done what they had yet to master. _

_ That was when they offered him the blade. _

_ He had deliberated the choice, for all that it was hardly a choice at all, but thinking of his lover and his friend, he knew this was a chance. One that would surely never come again. He placed himself under his lady’s power and in turn took the primal unto himself. So that all his victories would bring power to her family’s name- to  _ **_her._ **

_ He fought at his friend’s command, a blade singing across the battlefield- unstoppable, unwavering. He brought victories to his empire. He was heralded as a hero. He was worthy. _

_ And then each blessing became a curse. _

_ The gift of the Echo became a concern. Greater minds whispered of the strength he now held, that at any moment he might turn it upon the empire if he became dissatisfied. Jealousy, envy, a continued inability to bestow a mimicry of his gift upon others… all of it led to whispered rumours into the ears of people with the power to change the empire at a whim. _

_ She put her family first. Her namesake first. He had always known that, could not fault her for the loyalty. She had values and a position to uphold for the people who depended on her. He had loved that trait of her personality and praised it countless times. _

_ He forgot he was not of her family. _

_ She gave him to the empire, to be chained as the others- his aether supped upon by their machines to power the cogs of war. By the time he understood, it was too late. They had bound him, like so many of their enemies’ gods, and trapped him behind walls of metal. An eternity as a living battery looming over his future like a veil. He raged in silence, every foul word he could muster screamed behind locked lips. _

_ But Odin was no mere primal, and he was not so lightly held. _

_ By the time he was himself again, settled behind Odin’s helm and sword in hand, his rage had abated to confusion… then horror. This was her city- her home. Her land. Her people. Their blood. _

_ And therein lay the last of his blessings turned curses. _

_ His friend looked upon him, grief and sorrow bundled up tight behind a face of resolve. She whispered his name and he looked to her in despair. What had become of them? “It’s okay,” she told him, her words weak. The sword in her torso was damning. “It’s okay.” She reached out then with fingers stained red, and touched his hand. One hero of the empire pitted against another. “It’s… okay…” _

_ His anguish echoed in the streets. _

 

It was this that Minfillia saw, and the vision sent her reeling. “Gods…” She staggered, hand flying to the desk behind her to keep her from falling as she looked into his eyes. He saw her expression, the sorrow in her irises, and knew then that they must surely be of the same nature.

He was the first to look away, his gaze bitter, his voice even moreso.  _ “Did you have your fill? Look upon me now, a truer monster you will never-” _ His words were unintelligible to every other person in the room, a spoken tongue no longer in use. But for the power of the Echo, Minfillia understood every word and would hear none of it.

She collapsed to her knees and threw her arms around him, holding him tight and crying for the both of them. “No.” She whispered, fiercely in her resolute denial of his anger. “Do you hear me? That is  _ not _ true.”

And when she whispered his name, so soft and so kind, something in him- longing for the smile of one who been with him to the end- broke. He wept, silent and unmoving, quietly aching for the forgiveness of one who was no longer a part of this world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I uh. I really need more lore on Odin to make this character even remotely canon compliant. I dunno.


	8. By The Sword (cont'd)

They dance around each other for a time- two men too afraid to commit to anything, as Y’shtola describes it.

Valen isn’t a fool, no matter how easygoing he might seem, and only the inept wouldn’t see how inclined Thancred is towards women. He doesn’t press, knows his preferences do not take precedence over another’s comfort and, truly, it would not matter otherwise. Thancred has made no such advances towards the swordsman and any kind words he might offer are tainted by the self-loathing and guilt the bard harbors over the incident with Ifrit. And so, to both their minds, they are at a standstill.

But oh does he nurse his little crush.

Yda laments the circumstances, tells him if he pushed he might make something of it, but her methods have always been terribly straightforward. He imagines if she could manage it, she would hurl every primal into the sun.

Serene, he is sorry to say, is of a similar mindset. “Just give him a good-” and she makes an obscene gesture with her hand, startling a laugh out of Valen as he slaps his hand over hers and pushes it back down onto the table. The Bismarck is quiet for a sunny day, likely due to the early hour, but that does not mean there aren’t children running this way and that.

 _‘Maybe he is shy.’_ Shuo’li gestures at him from behind a cup of iced milk tea, head tilted in a way that makes the question seem innocuous save for the smile that curls his lips. He is just as mischievously interested in Valen’s affairs as every other busybody in his life.

“Far more probable he is feeling guilty about the whole affair.” Aarden amends, picking at his sandwich. He is deeply invested in his latest tome procured from the shopkeeps of Hawker’s Alley, so much so that Shuo’li has eaten more of his meal than the arcanist, and none of them don’t doubt he hasn’t noticed. “It takes a certain type to join an organization dedicated to the preservation of a continent- a specific tendency towards martyrism, if I may. No doubt he has heaped loads of self-flagellation upon himself in an act of penance. Is he, by chance, overworking himself as of recent memory?”

“Uh…” Valen replies, a little dumbly. He is yet unfamiliar with these fast growing friends of his and Aarden’s wordiness tends to leave him hesitating. “I wouldn’t know, really. I’ve been keeping busy myself.”

“So we’ve heard, Ifrit’s Bane.” Serene muses, making Valen flush as he quickly slaps at her arm and quickly looks around them. Word has spread swiftly of his achievements and he hasn’t quite cared for the fame it has brought him.

“Well, see to it you check in on him. Mark my words, his type is like to work himself to death in self-imposed atonement for events beyond his control. It’s always the egregiously flashy ones that have the most insecurities. Shuo, just eat the damn thing.” He adds in a bit of abrupt sharpness, finally looking at his foster-brother with a raised eyebrow.

The Miqo’te, in the midst of sneaking another bit of his sandwich, laughs silently and makes a big show of divvying up what remains before sliding the plate forward meaningfully. _‘You’ve lost weight.’_

“I have not,” Aarden sniffs, adjusting his spectacles and jumping away from Shuo’li’s questing hand as it darts at his side.

_‘Have to.’_

“I have certainly n-!”

“You’re a skinny little shite, issue resolved.” Serene intervenes, snatching Aarden’s book from his hands and snapping it shut. “You can read once you’re done eatin’.”

As a scowl graces Aarden’s lips and he reaches for the food, Valen leans back thoughtfully and mulls over the arcanist’s words. _Has_ Thancred been overworking himself as of late? It’s hard to tell since their paths cross so rarely, and even when they do the two make polite chatter before ultimately going on their way- usually either to report to Minfilia or off to go do that which will eventually need reporting on.

As Shuo’li chews on his ill-gotten lunch, he can’t resist licking a dollop of sauce off his thumb while giving Valen a thoughtful look. _‘You could just ask to spend time together.’_ Shuo’li comments, though truthfully the Echo negates the need for the hand gestures. _‘You’ll know if he declines.’_

“Were it so simple,” Valen muses. _But,_ he supposes as he ruffles Shuo’li’s hair, _it might at least be worth an attempt._

 

Thancred is surprised by the offer, that much is plain. It shows in his eyes, reserved as he seems, and in the shift of his stance. “Well now…” He drawls, thumbing his chin in consideration. “A night off does sound pleasant indeed.” He remarks, giving Valen an uneasy sense of hope.

“It’s nothing special, just drinks and a few hands. I heard you’ve a knack for Triple Triad.” Valen rushes to explain, knowing his hands are gesturing a little too animatedly. “We could invite the others too, if you’d like. I just thought it might be hard to arrange all our schedules together.”

And Thancred’s lips quirk marginally, enough that Valen knows _exactly_ how transparent that last ditch effort to seem casual was.

“A chance to have the slayer of primals all to myself? How could I refuse? On my honor, you have my word I will be there.” He announces with a flourish and- _Llymlaen save him-_ a wink. Unable to keep himself from it, Valen flushes a deep red and has to excuse himself hastily with a poorly concocted stammer of needing to speak to Urianger. Urianger who, in the most inhospitable of ways, _will not stop smirking_ at his red face when Valen all but hurls himself into his study and won't meet his eyes.

He never really pays attention to the fact that Thancred voluntarily brought up Valen’s deeds against Ifrit himself.

 

Vesper Bay is hardly the least pleasant place Valen has ever had the pleasure of visiting, (the Maws of Toto-Rak currently hold that prestigious award in his heart) but the smell does tend to overwhelm from time to time. Crescent Cove, on the other hand, offers a view of the lighthouse and the sea breeze tends to wash away any unpleasant scents that might hang in the air. The sight of the ocean horizon meeting the stars is also, in Valen's opinion, a worthy match against Limsa's harbor. 

They find themselves a comfortable spot beneath a stone overhang with a buffer against the wind and start the night drinking. A few bottles of wine exchange hands and soon Valen is feeling the happy warmth that comes from being slightly intoxicated. Not quite yet enough to lose control of himself, but having certainly taken the first few steps to do so. As he mulls over a card and laments his decision to allow Thancred to set the rules of the match, it is with some shock that the bard is the first to turn their conversation away from innocent chatter into something far more… personal.

“I realize I never did quite give you a proper response to your proposition.” He remarks, smiling faintly as Valen sets a card onto the board and has to pause, looking up at him.

“Er… pardon?” His voice is only mild slurred, more out of tongue-tied confusion than actual inebriation. “What do you mean?”

When Thancred’s eyes flick up to meet Valen’s, the swordsman is suddenly at a loss for words as the bard gives him what can only be described as a searing gaze. “That day in The Solar, you were… rather kind. I lament that I was too surprised to give you a proper response. And of course, afterward…” he trails off, feeling there is no need to put to words what was obviously a trying time.

Valen swallows, feeling a bit awkward. The scar on his face feels more glaring than ever, an incriminating disfigurement that only widens the gap between the two of them. It is that scar that Thancred carefully reaches towards, fingers slow and grasp measured.

“May I?” He inquires, that damningly sweet voice more tempting than any siren in the bloody ocean. Valen nods, for he is all but robbed of his words at this turn of events, and feels himself grow hot under those questing fingers when they touch the rough edges of his skin. Closing his eyes rather than face whatever expression Thancred might be wearing, he is punished for his cowardice when the bard’s lips meet his own after a moment- an insistent press that startles the life out of him.

Valen recoils in shock, upsetting both the wine and the cards in the process as he almost goes tumbling onto the dockside. Only Thancred’s quick hand saves him from that ungainly fate, though the amusement in those dark eyes hardly makes it worth it.

“Shall I take that to mean you’ve changed your mind?” He inquires, fingers tightening around Valen’s arm and tugging him close again.

The swordsman is speechless, and it shows in the way he stares at Thancred utterly poleaxed. The bard gives Valen the briefest of moments to consider this turn of events, before he’s leaning in again. It’s a slow approach, deliberately so. Thancred is giving him time to refuse, perhaps. To turn away and make his denial clear.

_Hells no._

Valen pushes forward that last inch of space between their mouths and seals Thancred’s with his own. He tastes of wine and smells of the salt on the breeze. He’s warm and his scent is slightly musky. His skin is smooth and _Twelve,_ Valen cannot get enough. It isn’t until his hands are fumbling at his gloves and all but yanking them off in an attempt to touch Thancred’s face that he realizes just how much he’d been resolutely _not_ thinking about how soft the other man's skin must be and how silky his hair must feel. It isn’t until he’s running his fingers over both that he understands just how _desperately_ he had been hoping.

When the kiss breaks for need of air, Valen is a flushed, shaking mess with the adrenaline thrumming through his veins while Thancred looks as beautifully reserved as ever. Valen would, perhaps, feel self-conscious of that if the bard didn’t immediately slide his thumb over the swordsman’s chin and press another delicate kiss to the side of his mouth. And when he laughs, Valen _feels_ the shiver down his spine as though it were a physical caress and has to duck his head to the embarrassing thoughts that race through his mind at a thousand yards a second. For heavenssake, it was only a kiss and Thancred has _only_ just expressed interest. To rush ahead in matters like this would only seem-

“Valentino.” Thancred’s voice is smooth as honey and pressed against his skin and _fuck_ , the swordsman has to bodily place a hand between them to save himself.

“ _Gods_ , don’t- I…  need a minute.” He breathes, words shaky in the wake of everything. That voice _does_ things to him and he is not prepared to explain to all of Eorzea why he was found being indecent in public. (Or, truthfully, the amount of laughter his friends are like to subject him to.) Thancred, to his credit, finally leans back and smiles that damningly charming smile with a hint of devilry to it.

“Go ahead, we have all the time we’ll need ahead of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cups hands around mouth* _ASSSSSSCIAN._


	9. By The Lance (fin.)

The second time he learns the true nature of his blessing, his finger is gently stroking Foulques’ sleeping cheek and slowly bringing him to wakefulness. Shuo’li has gotten far more bold in his touches as of late, that one kiss opening a myriad of affections he had formerly resisted if only because there was the barrier of the unacquainted.

Here and now however, with all that they have shared together, Shuo’li believes he has been patient enough. When Foulques opens his eyes, his gaze is, at first, distant and uncomprehending. Soft in the aftermath of sleep and slow to fill with the sharpness of anger that is his typical state. When their eyes meet, it takes him a moment to understand what is happening before a scowl starts to form on his lips. In an instant, the dark skin of his fingers is closing about Shuo’li’s pale hand and gripping tight enough to bruise.

“How many times-?” He begins in a snarl, voice hoarse with the grogginess of exhaustion, but Shuo’li looks into his eyes and sees the truth. _Knows_ in a way he has no business knowing that most of Foulques’ discontent is mere bluster. There is discomfort, surely, but a part of him is warming to the affection. A part of him is beginning to expect it, _want it_ , and that is all the encouragement Shuo’li needs to keep up the gentle administrations- hoping to soothe him both physically and mentally.

In the face of the Duskwight’s bluster, the Keeper slowly smiles and turns his wrist slowly to close his fingers over the other’s. Soft, pliant and waiting- a gentle and insistent offer of willingness.

With a growl, Foulques is yanking his hand away and throwing himself out of the bedroll first, burying Shuo’li under the heavy covers and letting in the cold air in the process. Shuo’li watches him go, watches him run a hand through his hair and take great, exaggerated pains to seem casual as he paces around the camp and goes about his typical morning ritual. When Foulques hesitates, eyes flicking back towards him in the way he knew he would- checking to see if he is indeed still tracking his every movement- Shuo’li offers him the sweetest smile he can manage just to rile him further and laughs silently when those eyes widen fractionally in outrage before he’s whipping around again.

Wriggling deeper into the covers until they cover the cold tips of his ears, the Keeper smiles to himself knowing Foulques will deliberately ignore him until it is time for him to leave. And, given his willingness to avoid the Keeper right now, he might even get to sleep an extra bell or two than he normally would.

 

Ywain is not as simple as he looks, nor as daft as others make him out to be. In the time Shuo’li has grown, he has noticed about him the makings of a secret- one that incites within him a vast concern. Wounds made by a lance hastily hidden under a collar gone askew in the midst of drills… Strikes that were not of his teaching but familiar to his eyes all the same. After all, did he not see a dozen of his own men defeated soundly by such thrusts?

He reaches the appropriate conclusion swiftly enough- his young novice has been receiving guidance from a man better off condemned and it is his solemn responsibility to try and rein him in. To keep him from the foolishness that Foulques is no doubt filling his ears with. Yet when he takes the Keeper aside, wishing to give him a well-intentioned warning, Shuo’li meets his eyes and Ywain is forced to admit there is more than the birth of an unshakeable courage within his small frame. There is also a sense of wisdom- a _knowing_ he cannot give reason to. His young ward is growing well and at a remarkable rate… but he is still a child all the same and Ywain fears that the courage he is working so hard to instill within the boy may become the folly of arrogance.

“I wanted to have a word with you… about Foulques.” He admits after a moment’s pause, folding his arms and meeting the Keeper’s eyes squarely. It is then, perhaps, he receives a more shocking revelation. Rather than having the decency to appear contrite or at the very least offering one of his typical, hapless smiles, the Miqo’te’s eyes shift downward towards the floor and his ears twitch ever so faintly with some unknown emotion. The smile that then curls his lips is a little helpless and… gods help him, if Ywain didn’t know better he would say the smile on Shuo’lis face is _bashful._

It takes him a moment to understand, truly, and then he is reeling because of just how disastrous this turn of events is.

When Shuo’li finally meets his eyes again, he offers his characteristic shrug and shakes his head. Slowly, for Ywain is still clumsy with the language of hands that is Shuo’li’s only means of communication, he makes the gesture for _tomorrow_ and then makes the sign for _friend._

Foulques will inevitably become Shuo’li’s friend, that the Keeper will make certain of it no matter what. The importance of that word is not lost on Ywain, however, and he abruptly finds himself at a loss for words because _Shuo’li does not know._ He does not understand that his desire to befriend Foulques- to save him from his hatred has evolved beyond his control into something deeper- more consuming.

_By Nophica…_

For a moment he is at a loss, uncertain how he should proceed as a mentor, before he is forced to relent. That role may soon be ending, he admits to himself, leaving him as naught more than a trusted companion. A friend. And as a friend there is precious little he can do but try to offer a warning and some well-meaning advice. To his credit, no matter what Foulques has taught him in the time Ywain had not been looking, the Keeper displays none of the qualities that are so shamefully prominent in the Elezen. His strikes are measured, his eyes calm and his movements precise. It is not fury and savagery that guides his hand- but assured resolve and thoughtful action. A _true_ lancer’s courage.

To that end, as a mentor, there is little Ywain can say. And so, as a friend, he places his hands on Shuo’li’s smaller shoulders and nods. “Be careful.” The Miqo’te smiles, bright and undaunted, and offers the midlander a hug, much to his surprise.

 _Aye, strong and brave and wiser by the day,_ Ywain thinks as he slowly hugs back, _but is he yet strong enough? Twelve give me the time to make it so._

But the decision is made for all of them.

Foulques chooses then to push him towards the next step of his training, deems it necessary to make Shuo’li _see_ what sort of people he is consorting with so that he might turn his back on them. He reasons, in his mind, that his young student is kinder than he has any business being, for youth and naivete have made him so. Little surprise then that he knows not the nest of vipers to which he keeps returning.

He does not acknowledge the fury that chokes every other emotion out of him. That gentle, ever present sensation of simmering anger turning into an outright boil at the sight he happened to chance upon of Shuo’li lingering outside the Lancers’ guild beneath some shaded canopy, hugging Ywain for reasons he cannot fathom. 

He does not acknowledge that seeing others give the Keeper cause to laugh in his silent, bright way makes him want to bathe the Twelveswood with their blood. So he does not… but the temptation remains all the same, and inevitably he realizes it is no different from his bouts against the wildlife of the Shroud.

Ywain’s interference can no longer be born. If he wishes to draw out the mother, he must destroy the offspring.

 

The Duskwight’s calling card is a chilling one- a series of drills interrupted and a group of trainees set upon by scalekin. Ywain does not need to hear the name of the perpetrator, knows in an instinctual way that Foulques has escalated this little perceived rivalry between them. It isn’t hard to fathom why either- he both wants to disgrace the guild by proving its initiates ineptitude and to also sway Shuo’li to his side. Shuo’li who, in the most tragically fated of timings, has chosen _now_ to appear at the guild. For a moment, Ywain laments the need to send Shuo’li to their aid, knows what he is likely to find, but he must contact E-Sumi-Yan should the worst have happened and there is no other under his tutelage present who can stand against the Duskwight.

And so he does, hoping naught will come of it but bruised pride and a friendship dented. “And Shuo’li-” He begins, stopping the Miqo’te as he heads for the door with a grim expression. “-should Foulques force your hand… do what must be done. Twelve speed you on your way.”

 

It is the bodies that incites him.

By the time Shuo’li has reached Foulques, the Elezen knows something is different between the two of them. It is in the Keeper’s pale eyes- the cold rage tempered by a veil of discipline that was no doing of Foulques.

 _Ywain._ The Duskwight curses the man’s interference, knows it will take time to undo, time better spent forging Shuo’li into a true lancer. “What kept you?” He calls out across the field as rain begins to beat against the bare earth, softening the soil into mud. “Helping your comrades? Fool. You waste your pity on false friends.” And he tells it- the story of his theft and guilt. Of the decision made to confess his sins- _their_ sins, only for the others to turn craven the moment he spoke up. Of their betrayal in leaving him alone to atone for the crimes.

And Shuo’li listens, because there is nothing else he can do. He hears the tale for what it truly is- heartbreak. _Loneliness._ The desire for the strength to stand on his own. For anger to to take the place of grief and give him the strength to stand each day. And it tears at him, looking into Foulques’ eyes and seeing within them a desperation born of denial and solitude. Yes, the Keeper is angry for his friends, but he is not Foulques and has never been given to his all-consuming anger. The anger is tapered by his sorrow, his empathy and his blessing bestowing upon him the folly of _knowing._ His heart cries out to the other lancer, an ache yearning to be heard with a throat that will not obey. _I’m here with you!_

He does not let his sorrow show on his face, _knows_ Foulques will mistake it for pity and that it will only incite within him to further rage. Further self-justification. So instead he does the only thing he can think to keep Foulques from harming himself or anyone else. He unhooks his spear and moves it slowly between them, the tip pointed forward and making his stance clear. He has resolved to do all he can to stop his friend… because he _must_ get through to him and time is no longer on their side.

The smirk that quirks the Elezen’s lips is bitter and satisfied. As though he _knew_ this was the only possible outcome. The proof of Shuo’li’s false loyalty and proclamation of friendship. All that was between them is meaningless and he is relieved at no longer having to wonder. “A true lancer of Gridania until the end.” He means the words as an insult and Shuo’li knows it be as much. It builds within him a desire to weep.

The fight begins like no other duel they’ve shared before with the rain turning the ground under their feet precarious and unstable. Shuo’li does not shy from his eyes as the Duskwight strikes, spear a graceful blur. Foulques does nothing different, has _never_ held back against the Miqo’te in the past… but Shuo’li has. He has never truly committed against the other man for lack of a drive to strike true- to maim. Now he has no choice and his strength is brought full to bear.

Foulques’ spear hits nothing, his strikes blocked as though they were but a child’s attempt at lancework and he begins to feel the inklings of uncertainty, of _dread._ And it’s in Shuo’li’s eyes, the _knowing_ , the infallible sense of calm as he anticipates every strike, every blow and every feint. Then, like a viper in the grass poised to strike, he is suddenly on the attack. Blow after blow, thrust upon sweep and suddenly his lance is too fast to follow- a blur of wood and metal arced in a swing-

The strike sends him flying, for the Miqo’te had the _audacity_ to strike him with the blunt end of his spear. So confident is he in his victory, so sound is Foulques in his defeat.

And he cannot understand it. _He cannot understand it._

He was superior, his methods correct- _his way right._ “... I-Impossible!” The word is a hissed denial, his _courage_ giving way to fear, even as Shuo’li stands before him unwavering.

And those damned eyes, forever seeing right through him.

 _Enough._ He swears he imagines it, the spoken sentiment in that gaze. He backs away all the same. “M-my courage is absolute!” He snarls, waving his spear in front of him as though it will fend him from the imagined assault. It is all wrong- _he_ is the teacher, the master of their relationship.

Shuo’li can feel his heart sinking deeper, aching at the thorns Foulques has imprisoned himself with. He sheathes his spear, the only show he can think to make to prove he isn’t here to fight- was never here to do so. That he isn’t here to damn Foulques any further. _No more._ The thought is pure as he takes a step towards the Duskwight and stretches out his hand _. Come with me._

And Foulques… Foulques _cannot. Will not._ He cannot accept Shuo’li has bested him in this manner, that what has served him for so long has failed him now at such a crucial time. He refuses to accept that there was an alternative- that what he had cast off in his arrogance was now being so casually offered to him now in the moment of his defeat. Friendship is and has always been _weakness._

It is an upset to his entire world, dealt from the worst hand possible, and too late is Shuo’li understanding that _knowing_ is not a blessing.

In his terror, Foulques misses the danger at his very feet.

Too late Shuo’li realizes the fate that is slowly sealing over the other. Too late does he rush forward, feet slipping in the mud as he reaches out and silently screams in his head a warning that cannot and will not be heard. His movement startles Foulques, and from that there is no salvation.

“No- _come no closer!_ ” The Elezen’s foot hits the loose gravel, tries to find purchase where there is none and…

He only sees those eyes, wide and terrified. Hand outstretched in a useless display of hope… and then gone, each lost to the other in the torrent of rain and by the cliffside.

Shuo’li’s knees hit dirt as he skids, just shy of sliding over the edge himself as he stares into the darkness below. For a moment he is still, mind working to overcome the shock. _He could still live, the fall might not have-_

A groan interrupts his thoughts. Unbidden, his eyes turn to the bodies he once thought corpses for the blood had surely made them seem as much. One stirs, weakly, then stills. Alive… but for how long? The rain will sap from them what little strength they have left if not immediately seen to. _The rain will surely kill them._ And all at once, the chill in his bones solidifies as he stares down the barrel of a decision he knows he must now make.

Slowly, a man haunted, his eyes drift back over the edge. If Foulques lives, he will need aid as swiftly as he can manage it.

Shuo’li must choose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm done with you elf man! Do you hear me?? _Done!_
> 
> ... why did you have to make such bad life decisions? *sob*


	10. By The Wand

The first time they meet, Serene kindly does not mention the tears.

Sylphie presumes them to be fear for his comrades, injured in the most grievous of attacks. She rushes to assure him that many of his brothers were saved by his actions. That surely that must count for something.

Serene says nothing, for she has seen the truth in a way that Sylphie does not understand, and likely never will. “Shuo’li Ukota?” She inquires softly, gifted with his name in her visions, and kneels before the Keeper- _Twelve, he’s tiny-_ before carefully placing her hands over his.

He is all a mess, this tiny Miqo’te. The hair of his head and tail are matted with rain and mud, there is a small gash on his face which she solemnly heals with as much thought as it takes her to breathe. His armor will have to be cleaned and for the life of him, he will not go near his own lance.

He is shaking.

When he looks up and meets her eyes, pale irises the colors of pearls meeting her own with the color of earth, a light dawns in them that tells her he understands that she knows. The neither of them can truly give reason to why they have these gifts, but it is something that unites them all the same. He knows that she too knows and that is all it takes to unravel him.

The tears begin afresh and he quietly bows his head to try and hide his shame, only for Serene to quietly raise her hands and circle them around his shoulders to bring him closer to her. She need not say anything because she understands that words are unnecessary between them and that some wounds require time more than they need a guiding hand.

Instead, she croons to him like a mother comforting a child and settles beside him, proof of her willingness to comfort his sorrows for as long as he needs. She expects hesitation, rejection of such open mothering for Shuo’li is a warrior and they’ve all this notion of masculinity. Shuo’li surprises her by raising a hand and clinging to her arms, accepting of her warmth and kindness without reservation. It is then she truly, _truly_ understands the nature of him.

Sweet and kind with an open heart… he has all the love in the world to give while the people around him unwittingly take. In that moment, between them is the birth of a bond, founded on a desire to nurture and the hope to protect him a little from the heartache he is inevitably destined for.

 

Serene accompanies him to the Lancer’s Guild to make his report. When she takes up a stance beside the Miqo’te and relays the events of the evening to Ywain in perfect detail, the Guildmaster is more than little astonished. He thinks to ask her if she was there- perhaps bore witness to the events by arriving swiftly or by happenstance.

The look of _knowing_ in her eyes, however, stills the question on his tongue. It is an unnerving stare in one whose face is more weathered and experienced than Shuo’li’s, but for the way his young student stands at her side for support tells him there is little to fear from this woman. He must also admit it gives him a little comfort to see his young student has found like company, whatever their circumstances.

“So Foulques is no more…” Ywain’s murmur is made with a heavy heart. He does not miss the red in Shuo’li’s eyes, nor the lack of laughter in his face as the Miqo’te stares upon the floor, typically lively tail unusually motionless. He is a sorry sight, covered in rainwater and muck as he is, but it is the grief that makes him hardest to bear. Staring upon him, Ywain struggles to find words to ease his pain and can only find a response befitting a guildmaster. “It is enough that you are still with us, Shuo’li.” He means that, truly, but a part of him does wish things had been a bit different, though there is no sense in wanting such things. Without a word, of course, Shuo’li only nods his acknowledgement and with a stiff bow, turns to make his leave.

Serene, eyes tracking his movement and his intentions, turns to look at Ywain and gives him a cursory nod before moving to follow like an overbearing mother. The sight makes him think Shuo’li will manage, but that day might be some time coming yet.

On their way out, he passes by another guildmate. One who meets his eyes as he offers brief nod of respect and stands aside. Shuo’li’s deeds are already widely known among the city and with their spreading has come an unusual amount of respect for his personage. Something the Keeper isn’t sure he appreciates. As his gaze flickers up to meet the Elezen’s, something passes between them in an instant- sharp and cold.

“You did well, Keeper.” _Serves the damn Duskwight right._

His hands are on the man’s collar before he realizes it, slamming the man straight into the wall with a look that instills in him a deathly fear.

“Shuo’li!?” Jillian’s voice is distant in his ears as she stares at him in shock, hands going over her mouth from behind her desk. He pays her no mind, cannot even seem to see her as he bares his fangs, ears straight upon his head as he silently _snarls_ his anger. How _dare_ this man presume to know _anything_ about-?

“That’s enough.” And Serene is suddenly there, hand sliding over his eyes and pushing him into darkness as she gathers him against his chest. In an instant, his understanding is gone and there are only his own thoughts inside his head instead of the other lancer’s. There is pain and grief and _anger_ underneath it all that they still don’t understand. _They still don’t understand._

And then he realizes why Serene covered his eyes, why she placed her hand over his gaze- to keep him from reading what is in other peoples’ hearts. In less than a day, she has solved the puzzle of his gift that has allowed him to mistakenly understand the minds of those around him and has given him the solace of shying away from it.

“Let it go, he’s grieving.” He hears her tell the man he assaulted, knowing that even though his thoughts are wrong, there is no proper way Shuo’li should have been able to hear them and that if others learned of his gifts, they might turn upon him as a threat. “And _you_ , Wildwood, should know all life is worth somethin’ and that there’s no celebratin’ a loss. Even one such as his ilk.”

He doesn’t see the reaction Serene’s words incite, never has the chance because the Roegadyn is then bodily picking up him and taking him out of the guild, much to his embarrassment. It is one thing to have an outburst in the guild hall and another to be carted away like a child.

When they’ve put some distance between them and the building, she finally takes her hand away from his eyes and smiles a little at the indignation she finds in them. “If you act like a bairn, I’ll treat you like one.” She warns as she sets him on his feet and smiles wider when he sulks, lifeless ears perking slightly in agitation. “Come on then,” she adds, slinging an arm around his shoulder and immediately regretting it for the height difference. “You’ll be wantin’ to stop by the leatherworkers after your bath, I’ll wager.” She adds, smiling when he gives her a confused look.

It takes him a moment to understand her meaning, but when he does he touches his face lightly and nods after a moment. If anyone might be willing to listen to the strange request of fashioning a mask that does not hinder him unduly, it would be the crafters beneath Geva’s tutelage.

He is tired of knowing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Serene, by contrast, is exceptionally uncomplicated in her past. She's just a mama-roe tired of all these kids gettin' hurt.


	11. By The Arrow

The strings of a harp do a poor job in blotting out the ruckus of an argument, but by the _Gods_ does he try.

“Hey Des.” Jevani greets the Elezen, walking by with baskets of fleece piled high in his arms. Spotting the Wildwood, he makes a detour off the path and sets them down next to his friend, smiling over his shoulder at the arguing pair behind one of Eorzea’s treasured champions (though a markedly far less celebrated one) and offers the bard a wry grin. “Spirits, how long have those two been at it?”

“Oh, are they arguing?” Destrillien inquires, voice a little too mild to be truly composed. The Keeper laughs, taking a seat on the man’s bench and pricking his ears towards Sanson and Guydelot who, against all the odds, have carried on a solid bout for a near 30 minutes now.

“What happened this time?” He inquires as Destrillien makes a valiant effort at composing, only for a more subtle dip in the song to be completely lost to Sanson’s shrill yell about Guydelot’s womanizing bringing dishonor to… something, he doesn’t know. Doesn’t particularly care, if he’s being honest.

“Something something, Guydelot and skirts, something.” The Wildwood finally gives up entirely and sets the instrument aside, choosing instead to reach for a bottle of wine he’d brought for his own personal enjoyment. When Jevani snags it out of his hand to take a sip of his own, the bard can only sigh in exasperated tolerance.

“It was _dinner_ with an _esteemed friend._ ” Guydelot stresses from behind him, having also been apparently ignoring Sanson to the best of his ability for the last 5 minutes. His arms crossed and his shoulder braced against a wall, he would be the very picture of relaxed were it not for the hunched posture of his shoulders and an occasional tap of his foot signalling a desire to get as far away as possible.

“A _dinner,_ ” Sanson emphasizes the word in scathing tones, “that lasted well past any respectable hour and ended with the noble lady completely _sotted_. Her father’s convinced Guydelot’s ruined her and is demanding he be properly punished.”

“Ruined?” Jevani echoes, hiding the bottle of wine at his hip as Destrillien makes a reach for it. “Ruined as in…?”

“They’ve called her virtue into question.” Sanson answers before Guydelot can, flushing an ugly red and giving him a thorough glare when he only shrugs in response.

“If they knew the Lady Anette as I did, they wouldn’t bother.” Is all the guilty in question party can say with a shrug, pausing when Jevani sputters, spitting red all over the cobblestone. Destrillien scowls, using the opportunity to yank the bottle from the now cackling and utterly unrepentant Miqo’te.

“If you’re going to waste it, you don’t get to drink it.” He snaps, rolling his eyes as Jevani half laughs, half chokes.

“ _That_ Anette? Twelve, does her father know half the Twelveswood has his daughter’s virtue?” When Sanson whirls upon the Miqo’te, hellbent on telling him off, the Keeper immediately senses he’s worn out his welcome and bolts, half-remembering to grab his fleece on the way. “Later Des!”

Destrillien, on the other hand, truly doesn’t think Sanson’s face can possibly get any redder than it already is, but he is thoroughly uninterested in finding out. It is time, he thinks, to change tactics. “Sanson, you really must give poor Guydelot a reprieve. This is just his way of soothing his sorrows.”

“Yes, absolutely. I’m only- what did you say?” His fellow bard halts mid-agreement, turning to look upon Destrillien with suspicious eyes. The Wildwood, in turn, offers him a most sympathetic smile as he takes a sip of the wine.

“These little trysts are simply his way of hiding his true inclinations.” He continues, ignoring the man’s startled squawk in favor of locking eyes with Sanson to make him _understand._

Sanson who, in typical fashion, folds his arms and tilts his head slightly in consideration. “True inclinations…?” He mulls Destrillien’s words over for a moment, pondering them for clarity, and then immediately starts. “You mean he-!?” And he looks at Sanson in shock, having gone terribly pale.

“ _No._ ” Guydelot persists, desperate, but the damage is done.

“Guydelot… listen, though I know it is none of my business, who or what you love is not at all… I mean, I know there are some who would speak against it but I would not… what I mean to say is, you are among friends here.” Sanson is not particularly gifted in his way with words, perhaps proof positive of why he is captain of this particular unit rather than a proper member of it. Oh he has tried his hand at the art, but his lack of a natural talent for it means he must work all the harder to earn his mastery. Something, Destrillien admits, he finds rather respectable about the Hyur.

Guydelot, for his part, has completely given up and is looking skyward, though he takes a moment to give Destrillien a particularly nasty look.

“I am also relieved, truthfully, for now I know you did not mean to disrespect Lady Anette.” He pauses, then awkwardly rubs the back of his neck. “I mean, I was fairly certain you hadn’t, but now I am certain. Excuse me, I will go and report this to the Order so that this matter can be resolved swiftly.” And, with a firm nod and- _Gods help him-_ a quick, almost brotherly handclasp to the man’s shoulder, he is gone, trotting over the bridge and towards the Adder’s Nest.

The _moment_ he is out of earshot, Guydelot gives Destrillien a reproving look. “ _That_ ,” he gestures to Sanson’s retreating back, “is going to be _all over_ Gridania within a fortnight.”

“By the evening, I’ll wager.” Destrillien confirms with a smirk as he picks his harp back up. “Next time word of your misdeeds reach Sanson’s ears, endeavor to be far away from me.” He adds giving the strings a pleasant strum. “Besides, it is not as though I was entirely wrong about your inclinations.” He adds with a bit of confidence, giving the man a look from beneath long lashes, the pale blue of his eyes alight with mischief.

In response, Guydelot only rolls his shoulders and smirks. “As a bard, it would be remiss of me to not see the beauty in all things, including both men and women.”

“Is that the excuse you’re using now?” Destrillien inquires, humming the last bit of his question as he feels the stirrings of creativity begin.

“As though you have a pedestal from which to preach, Aurifort.” Guydelot reminds him, eyebrow quirking faintly as his smirk widens. “Need I remind you of who received our beloved captain’s blistering but two days prior?”

“That was a perfectly consensual threesome with two very good-natured adventurers.” Destrillien replies, completely nonplussed as Guydelot fills the air with rich laughter.

“Well the next time he assails your ears, remember this.” Guydelot threatens, shaking his head in bemusement before striding away. Likely to the Canopy in order to find some company or perhaps off to the Shroud to work on a few compositions. Whatever jokes Destrillien likes to make at the other’s expense, Guydelot has always been studious in his arts. It is, in part, why he is one of the most prominent members of the unit after all.

 

The damage is a bit more extensive than either of them anticipated.

For a time, Sanson holds his tongue at the sight of Guydelot with a pretty woman on his arm, likely trying an exercise in patience, but eventually that newfound reserve runs its course and he’s right back to where he was. Worse, actually, and even Destrillien can see it despite not being on the receiving end.

“He’s hounding me night and day and when it’s not about the women, it’s about my form or my _shenannery_.” Guydelot groans, head in his hands as he slumps over their table, arms precariously close to knocking off their cups.

“Sh-what?” Jevani questions, as he places a card on the table and squawks when Serene immediately overturns it without hesitation by setting down one of her own.

“You heard me.” Guydelot grouses, raising his head and looking at their card game in disgust. “ _Shenannery._ I don’t think _he_ even knows what that word means.”

“Entirely likely because that’s _not_ a word.” Destrillien sniffs, frowning when Serene rolls her eyes.

“I swear you two would fuck books if they had holes and walked on legs.” She mutters. “Grey, exactly how long do you plan on marinating that cup?” She adds, looking at their fifth who has not quite joined in the revelry but has remained on the outskirts, observing.

The Elezen, expression hidden entirely by the ornate mask he wears over his face, possibly smiles as he slides his cup back and forth between his hands and tilts his head slightly, sending a lock of pale hair across his hidden face. “I am attempting to see the former essence of life that was consumed to make this drink.”

“... why did you invite him again?” Destrillien finally asks after a moment of poignant silence, looking at Jevani in accusation. Jevani, rolling his shoulders in an artful shrug, can only grin.

“He’s funny.”

“Thaumaturges.” Serene shakes her head and taps the table. “Quit stalling.”

“I’m _not_ stalling, I’m _thinking._ ”

“Think faster.”

“Gentlefolk.” Guydelot all but snaps, drawing their attention back to him. “Can we please discuss how Destrillien has summarily robbed me of all pleasure in my life?”

“Well he hasn’t taken your dick yet, has he?” Serene says before Destrillien can make a similar, far more crafted remark. “Just fuck Sanson and be done with it.”

“You like to solve everything with fucking.” Grey remarks, amusement plain in his voice.

“And you’d rather set it all on fire.”

“Many problems are solved with fire.”

Destrillien feels an oncoming headache. “Though I’ve issue with her wording, Serene makes an excellent point. You _could_ just proposition him like you’ve been wanting to and resolve this all neatly. Do _not_ ,” he adds when he sees Guydelot open his mouth in protest, “act as if the thought hasn’t crossed your mind daily. The two of you skirt around each other like a pair of useless virgins and I and the rest of the Order are all _thoroughly,_ ” he puts emphasis on the word. “ ** _Thoroughly,_** ” he repeats the word for extra effect, “tired of it.”

“It is _not_ that simple.” Guydelot snarls, flushing mildly and resting his chin in the nest of his arms. “Sanson is oblivious. This situation requires a little more tact than my usual conquests.”

“Because you’re looking for more than a quick fu-”

“ _Enough_ with that… word.” Guydelot interrupts Serene, scowling when she smirks at him. “And yes, that is a part of the problem. I need to make it perfectly clear when the time comes that it is meant to be more than a simple tryst. Sanson is… delicate, he is like to assume the worst and hurt his own feelings in the process. I would rather spare us both that little misunderstanding from the very beginning. To that end, I must plan my confession accordingly.”

“There’s also the fact he’s probably never been with a man before.” Jevani tosses in, finally conceding defeat in the game and hurling his cards at the board with a sound of grievance.

“Or a woman.” Serene notes. “He’s uptight, if you hadn’t noticed.” She remarks as she gathers the discarded cards and begins sorting them into a neat pile. “Rematch?”

“To the Seven Hells with you, shedevil.” Jevani grumbles, digging into his pack and pulling out a small bundle of reeds he’d gathered earlier in the day. Slipping one out of the tie, he quickly measures it with thumb and finger, dancing it along the edge, before reaching into his pocket and producing a sharp little knife. With a sharp jerk, he chops the stalk in half before he is physically _jamming_ it into Grey’s cup.

The Elezen considers this new development for a moment before shimmying the top end of the straw beneath his mask. “Oh, this works quite well.” And he takes a sip through the newly crafted straw.

“You are bloody weird.” Jevani sighs.

“You _do_ love him, though? Enough to consider marriage?” Grey asks then, making Guydelot start.

“Why on-? No, that is moving far too quickly for my tastes. Nevermind he isn’t even aware of my feelings, we must needs ascertain just how well we do together first before we even consider taking vows.”

“But if it all works out?” Grey presses, making a loud slurp of his drink.

“ _If_ there are no intolerable issues… perhaps.” Is all the Elezen will commit to. And then- “You’re all incredibly persistent about this.” He adds, frowning.

“Probably because Sanson’s been standing behind you since Des’s little rant and we wanted him to hear it from your own mouth.” Serene informs him, ignoring his startled whirl as she folds up the Triple Triad board. In unison, both Jevani and Destrillien rescue the knocked over cups from a tragic fate upon the floor as the Elezen all but overturns his seat to stare at the Hyur who has come up behind him. A Hyur who, by the sheer red of his face, has heard far more than enough of what is suddenly a damning conversation.

Guydelot’s expression towards the table is _mutinous_ before he takes a step towards Sanson, hands outstretched in a placating gesture. “Now, Sanson, I know what this must seem like…”

And then he has to stop because the Hyur is jabbing his finger into his chest and looking furious. “Can’t you even get a _confession_ right? Instead I have to overhear it while you’re having drinks??”

“Wait- _that’s_ what you’re mad about?” Guydelot retorts, astounded. Then- “Wait, _why are you even mad!?_ ”

“Cheers.” Destrillien offers, holding up his cup to his other conspirators who obligingly knock their glasses against his.

“To true love.” Serene agrees.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just like to think of all bards as extremely bisexual grammar-nazis.


	12. By The Light (one)

The first time he meets them, it is in La Noscea, staring into the shadowed depths of a pirate’s smuggling cove.

… No, no, that is incorrect. He met them long before- crossing paths in the Twelveswood. Shuo’li on his own, standing solitary at the edge of a cliff and staring off into the distance- and again later with Serene as he was on his way to meet with Kan-E-Senna at the Lotus Stand. Both had been emerging from the Stillglade Fane, dressed for work in the woods and had smiled at him warmly in passing and waved. One adventurer’s greeting to another.

But the first time they truly trade names is when they bump into each other while hoping to fill Baderon’s request. Just one of many answering the Maelstrom’s call for aid.

It is Shuo’li who makes the first move, never one to shy from meeting new strangers. Approaching Valen who stands by his lonesome at the entrance, the Keeper’s tail sways with each step before he stops in front of the Hyur and peers up into his face, boldly inquisitive. After a moment, as the familiarity of recognition settles in, he smiles widely, showing fang, before gesturing to Serene who is not far behind.

His eyes, Valen notes in the midst of his confusion, are hidden by a slip of leather, not unlike the visors the officers of the Adder tend to wear.

“I know you.” Serene says after a moment, taking stock of the man who has so captivated her friend’s curiosity. “You’re that fellow who was dancing for the children by the Carpenters’ Guild.” She remarks, making him flush even as he grins sheepishly. Despite the conjurer's’ wand she carries at her hip and the distinct Gridanian make of her clothes, Serene’s accent is strongly Lominsan in nature.

“The Harvest Dance is a very serious undertaking.” He responds after a moment with a mock serious nod, not entirely able to hold back a grin that punctuates the end of that sentence. “They were excellent teachers.”

His reply seems to make Shuo’li think well of him, enough so that he ends up making a series of inquiring hand gestures that only Serene seems to understand. When her gaze shifts from Shuo’li back to Valen, her nod is amiable enough. “I’ve no issue with it. We could use the strength in numbers and the Gods know I’m tired of trying to keep your malleable ass alive on my own.” When Shuo’li only grins and shrugs, she can only sigh and shake her head. “Nophica grant me patience.”

“I uh…” Valen hesitates, at a bit of a loss, then stumbles when Shuo’li locks arms with him before pointing to the cave and gesturing at the 3 of them. “... All of us? Together?” He inquires, blinking.

“All of us.” Serene confirms, eyes sparkling merrily with mischief. “We’re just waiting on-” Her words are interrupted by laughter, high pitched and slurred. Drunk. As one their eyes dart to the source- a young Elezen woman with bottle in hand and surrounded by her companions, all of whom seem to be giving a young woman a hard time. “... one more. Though he’d better hurry if we don’t want to lose our chance.”

“Who had better hurry?” A voice lightly inquires from behind Valen, making both he and Shuo’li start. Turning upon the speaker, Valen finds himself face to face with a pole of a man, tall and lanky but distinctly Hyur. The swordsman judges him to be two or three years older, though that could very well simply be because of the spectacles that rest on the bridge of his nose making him seem wiser than his years. “And who is this?” He inquires, noting Shuo’li’s companion with a smile.

Knowing a cue when he sees one, Valen hastens to give a nod and an introduction, though he is keenly aware that Shuo’li has yet to release him. “Valentino Alderlan of Limsa. Valen is fine. Your friends,” he hesitates to see if he has the right of it and is relieved when the stranger nods for him to continue. “Were just inviting me along to join you on your mission.”

“I would wager twas Shuo’li who did the inviting.” The man remarks, giving Serene a smile. “Serene is not known for making easy introductions.”

“Bite my arse, Orwen.” She replies, though there is a gruff affection in her voice, to which the Hyur laughs brightly.

“Forgive me, I am Aarden Orwen of the Arcanists’ Guild. This is my foster-brother, Shuo’li Ukota and his friend-”

“Serene Meadow.” The Hellsguard introduces herself, offering Valen her hand. “You’ve seen us around.”

“I think I’ve seen all of you at one point or another, to be honest.” Valen agrees, shaking her hand firmly. “Now, not to rush beautiful budding friendships and all, but it’s getting a _little_ crowded.” He adds, glancing at the growing throngs of adventurers who all seem to be thinking the same thing.

“Agreed, shall we proceed then? Glory waits for no man.” Aarden concurs, opening the book at his side. When Serene gives him a side glance, his smile tells her the omission was intentional. With a snort, she nudges him ungently and rolls her shoulders when her only response is a good-natured chuckle.

“Jackass.” She retorts fondly, even as he begins to read aloud from the pages, conjuring a summoning circle. When it is complete, he gestures towards the glowing lines and raises his hand, palm facing the sky, as if drawing something out of the earth. At once his familiar springs forth, glowing brightly in the shadow cast by the cave and immediately alert.

“Well now, I would say we are prepared.” He finishes, adjusting his glasses and closing the book again. “Master Alderlan, if you would?” He inquires then, looking to Valen who visibly shudders.

“Valen.” He insists, drawing sword and shield and taking point. “Just hearing that gives me the shakes.”

“My dearest lord Alderlan.”

“That’s it. I’m going to conveniently forget how to use this shield.”

“Don’t you swivvin’ _dare._ ” Serene growls as Shuo’li silently throws back his head and soundlessly laughs.

 

One hour and a great deal of fish slime later, Aarden looks over to Valen who is bent in half and gasping for breath over the corpse of the _largest_ Sahagin he has ever seen. He says then, in rather amiable tones, “You know, I hear Gridania’s Adventurer Guild is currently recruiting for an as-yet undisclosed task.” He pauses to nudge Shuo’li’s boot with his leg, seemingly concerned that the lancer has but all given up on standing and has instead chosen to sprawl out in the filth of the cave. “And seeing as how you seem to have a knack for handling fishy situations-”

“Don’t.” Serene warns, her hands dutifully seeing to the scrapes Valen has accumulated in being their proverbial and literal shield against the threats the cave had presented.

“-perhaps you might be willing to help us handle another? No one ever said glory is not to be shared, after all.”

 _‘As if you care about glory. You just want to know what’s got the Adders so riled.’_ Shuo’li signs lethargically from his position on the floor, shifting slightly as something uncomfortable digs into his back.

“The Order is rather infamous for their secrecy.” Aarden answers, much to Valen’s apparent confusion. He does not yet understand Shuo’li’s gestures and therefore is privy to only half the conversation. “Can you blame me for wanting to know what has the Adders so… addled?”

_‘Stop.’_

“Yes, he’s always like that.” Serene answers Valen’s unspoken question before he can even voice it and instead whaps him on the back to inform him he’s ready to gain all sorts of new injuries. “So how about it?” She asks then, making Valen smile ruefully.

“Only if there’s no really, really big fish this time.”

 

There is definitely a distinct lack of Sahagin within the Deepcroft, but there are certainly a great deal of cultists, undead and really, really big things with lots of legs.

“But on the brightside,” Aarden remarks brightly after they’ve cut their way through swaths of voidsent and angry men waving sticks while Serene rails at Shuo’li who very nearly threw himself off the final platform trying to derail an imp that was attacking her, “no fish.”

Valen gives him a disgusted look as he pointedly takes a very big step back from the formerly solid Soulflayer that is slowly oozing its way into nothingness. He also cannot help but notice Aarden is giving him an extremely expectant look. “... what?”

“... so the Immortal Flames are currently-”

_“La la la la la!”_

… But of course he goes, because in these three he has found something of a comfortable niche. And, perhaps more importantly, they instill within him a sense of courage that he would be hard pressed to come up with on his own.

 

The third (Fourth? Fifth?) time he meets them, he is far too exhausted to think much of their presence in The Waking Sands as he strides past both Aarden and Shuo’li who are conversing affably with Yda and Papalymo.

“... and so _you_ were the one who created this language for him?” He can hear Papalymo inquiring politely, a note of scholarly interest in his tone as he stares up at Aarden.

“Mm, when we were boys. Truth be told, I regret it some days. He’s quite the pair of hands.” The Hyur adds, a teasing note to his voice.

“... oh! Instead of _quite the mouth_ , it’s _quite the hands._ ” Yda proclaims after a moment. “That’s not very clever.” She adds, making Shuo’li snort as Aarden gives her a despondent look.

“Hey guys.” Valen greets as he strides past them, offering the group a friendly wave. He gets, perhaps, as far as the steps descending to The Solar before he realizes something is amiss. “Wait-”

“Ah, Valentino. Allow me to introduce to you two of our newest recruits.” Papalymo begins, gesturing to both Aarden and Shuo’li without the vaguest notion of the bomb he is thoroughly dropping into Valen’s universe. “Like you, both Aarden and Shuo’li are possessed of the Echo.”

“And with Serene, that rounds up the newest recruits to a splendid four.” Yda adds in, looking thoroughly pleased by the fact.

Valen, looking at both Aarden and Shuo’li and only recalling exactly _how_ much mischief the three of them have gotten him into over the past week, can only feel the faintest inklings of something both grand and terrible looming on the horizon. “... Gods, I’m not going to make it to my next nameday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Head colds suck.
> 
> Any chapter with "Light" in the title will more or less be msq focused. To quote a great show- "Great, the gang's all here. Now we can die together!"


	13. By The Spear

They meet by fate and well-intentioned mentors seeking only to save them from themselves.

Ywain is desperate to get Shuo’li out of the Twelveswood. He sees it in the occasional slump of the Keeper’s shoulders, the way he sometimes catches himself staring at the door as an Elezen passes through its arches and a lance on his back. Feels it in the way Shuo’li always shuffles through the halls, sometimes picking bits of leaf and twig from his hair, gained from another night spent camping alone in the elements. For others, his small friend has always been willing to do what he must. But when it comes to himself… he is lost.

What he needs, Ywain truly believes, is time and distance. The chance to put space between him and Foulques’ demise and so when a request comes from Ishgard for assistance with a matter that requires discretion and secrecy, Ywain can only think it is the hand of the Twelve themselves giving him a sign. For who could be more secretive than one who is not given to speech?

He relays the message to Shuo’li, sends him with his blessings and warns him against the cold of Coerthas climes before ushering the Miqo’te away. Time and space, he repeats to himself once the Keeper is gone.

 

But time and space do not bring solace to a heart whose wounds still fester. Following Logedanrel’s guidance, he finds the remains of a gutted campfire on the far edges of the Observatorium and wonders at the state of it. Wonders how lonely the night must have been and how the winds must have sapped at the skin of the one who made it, stealing from him any warmth the fire might have brought. As he bends on one knee to inspect the frigid ashes, his fingers catch edge of something and he has to force himself to swallow past a lump when he brushes away a few drifts of snow and finds the telltale signs of carpentry at play.

_ They eat in silence, for Foulques is not given to easy chatter and Shuo’li is appreciative of companionable quiet. Afterward, when the cleaning is done and Foulques has begun the habitual process of selecting a piece of firewood for his next carving, Shuo’li opts to sit beside him this time and watch. _

_ “Always with the grain, never against.” Is all Foulques says after a long moment, tilting the block so that the Keeper can see the lines of the wood better. “About the only thing I ever picked up from the guild.” He adds before resuming, shaving away at the beginnings of a hippogriff, one layer at a time. When Shuo’li leans in a mite bit too close, the growing darkness the reason for the lack of distance between them, Foulques has to halt in his carving to nudge at the Miqo’te a bit impatiently. _

Any deeper into his deliberation and Estinien might have caught him entirely by surprise.

“That Ishgard would resort to sending coin-starved adventurers after me… I know not whether to laugh or feel insulted.” His disdain is clear, as is his unwillingness to broker any sort of negotiation. The spear between them indicates as much. But something about his mannerisms pricks at Shuo’li, evoking within his mind an image of puffy disdain that swells up like a bird ruffling its feathers. Estinien is haughty, enough to put wind in the sails of any proper galleon, and just as self-important in his behaviour. As though all is set to a plan of his making.

All at once Shuo’li is agitated, much in the same manner he once would have been with Foulques. It puts within him a desire to reach out, take the Elezen by the ear and drag him all the way back to Alberic in the snow, as though he is naught but a misbehaving child who needs to have some manners properly scolded into him before being told to stand in a corner.

The mere thought of such a ludicrous scenario involving a grown man who clearly thinks himself so intimidating nearly makes him smile.

After Estinien is gone, spooked by some happenstance that Shuo’li is unable to decipher, he is left to wonder a little at the state of Estinien’s affairs.  _ Where now,  _ he can’t help but wonder,  _ will you warm yourself against the wind? _

 

Back at the Observatorium, Alberic tells the tale in full. That the man he chased is of an authority within the Holy See, and that his title bears weight. He is praised and held in a lofty position of respect by the valued of Ishgard’s elite.  _ They couldn’t be more different,  _ Shuo’li thinks dimly as Alberic laments the circumstances. Estinien is of Alberic’s own teachings, and it is the mentor who blames himself for the Elezen decisions. His mentor who now strives to bring him to Ishgardian justice.

_ Is that really needed?  _ Shuo’li cannot help but think, even as the Hyur offers him a glimmering blue stone that winks in the waning daylight.  _ Why take the Eye? Why would someone so proud, so  _ **_devoted_ ** _ to the lance take the coward’s path? _

Perhaps he is no longer assailed with the weight of knowing, but that does not change what he has already seen. Shuo’li has lived enough thoughts that are not his own to know nothing is as simple as it seems at a first glance. There is more to Estinien’s tale, more than a man moved by the thought of personal gain.

_ “You may be assured that a fate worse than death awaits him upon capture.” _

_ What does it mean to become a dragoon? What will it mean for me? For Estinien? Will I become his replacement?  _ The worries come one after another, unbidden and unhindered in their flow. He deliberates not because he is fearful of the future’s uncertainty, but for what it might mean for Estinien. He does not think Ishgard would so easily replace their beloved hero and certainly not for an outsider and an adventurer at that, but Alberic has stated how rare it is for the Eye to rouse for one man, much less two.

Would those in power take it as a sign that Estinien is no longer needed?

His fingers delicately pluck the stone from Alberic’s hand and he turns it over in his palm, a thousand worries occupying his thoughts. Yet even so, at once there is a warmth in his chest, like the hug of a familiar friend come to ease his troubles and give him solace from his fears. The stone shines a little in his hand before dulling to a glow not unlike that of moonlight.

_ Maybe the decision is being made for me,  _ he thinks and closes his fingers around the stone, feeling the weight of it sink into his very core.

He thinks of a spear, black as midnight and thrust at his face. He thinks of dark, calloused fingers stretched outwards in hopeless despair.

_ This time.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh shit son, gettin' all job stone up in here.


	14. By The Zweihänder

_She walks the steps as if they are hers alone. An endless path of frigid stone and shattered ice._

_Ishgard._

_She knows it well. Has felt the fathoms of its hierarchy and tradition down to the very core of her soul. Has warmed herself against the bitter cold of its ashen winds with the wrath it birthed within her.  It is a place that fills her with fury and anger… a rage unbridled._

_The abyss swirls within, threatening consumption._ Not yet _, she whispers. The time has yet to pass._

 

_“Shria?” The face is an unfamiliar one- Hyur, Midlander. A friendly face weathered by personal demons hidden by a soft smile and made more obvious by a scar that spans the length of his face. His eyes are bright with passion and something else. Something e l s e…_

_“You remind me of him,” her own voice speaks. Deeper, smoother, older. “Both completely hopeless.”_

_The stranger smiles, genuine and a little sad. “Well… I think I’ll take that as a compliment.” He hesitates a moment, deliberating his words, before turning to look out over snow covered spires and a cloud covered landscape. “He was a good man.”_

_“... yeah, he was.” The spring stirs._ She will die for this man _._

 

_Their blades lock, a thousand prayers of strength pressing into her own and for a moment she fears her arms will give. That the strength she has hoarded for this day and each day beyond will not avail her this time._

_“No.” The breath is a whispered denial- rage and vengeance and fury honed into a single syllable. She is more than this. She has_ always _been more than this shortsighted, pitiful fool’s grasp at peace. Her will is more refined, more nuanced- the unending labyrinth of an endless abyss._ **_Her_ ** _abyss._

_She. Is. Darkness._

_She shoves back, startling the knight in her strength and uses the opening to thrust her hand forward, slamming a wave of power into his side to suck from him the life that he holds so high above her own and countless others._ **_“Pretender.”_ ** _She hisses._

 

_Her arm blocks the blow intended for another, a thousand sharp needles springing to life beneath the skin of her arm as she staggers. The man before her presses, unwilling to relent the advantage he has gained in the weakness of her loyalty to her companions. In the back of her mind, the abyss chides her._

_**the path is walked alone  
** _

_“Shut. Up.” The words are not only to the wellspring of wrath that binds her soul as one, they are also for the men before her who_ dare _to preach to her of justice and faith. “What makes your damn justice so different from mine?” As always, the fury wells up and fills her from heart to frame, strengthening her resolve and body alike. “Stamping over the wills of others in service to your own ideals- disregarding law and sanction to do what must be done, heedless of the voices of those who will never thank you.”_

_The mage in the back is beginning to cast, the flurry of his royal blue robes fluttering with the power of his aether. When the spell flies and her opponent throws himself out of the way, she faces the attack fearless. Her fury is ever present, ready to rise up and carry her past the threshold of death into the beyond- filling her steps with the strength only dying men possess._

_She does not bring it forth, nor does she suffer the brunt of the blow. The ward settles about her shoulders comfortably, her fended partner’s hand stretched out towards her in the most casual of gestures as the aether bounds off his shield and into the air about her face. “All you do is look away from the shadows that fuel your vainglorious ideals.” She is raising her sword, the pain a fading thing in the wake of her vengeance. “And that is, at best,” the words are sharp on her tongue, wrath refined into spoken cadence, “pitiful.”_

 

She wakes.

“Do you always use so much?” The question is innocuous in tone but for the presence of the speaker at all. The Elezen regards her with a curious tilt of his head, sending dull gray locks sliding across the mask that obscures his face in its entirety.

“Do you always watch me sleep?” She grunts, a dry mouth making her voice hoarse as she shoves at his prying face and sits up. Even in the lighter dress of her undercoat, sleeping in armor is painful. She had meant only to nap- a brief respite in the wake of an endless trek… but it would seem her body- and _gift_ \- had other plans.

“You called me.” He responds, sitting back to give her the space she is so desperately fond of. There is an intonation in his voice that makes the words seem playful, but she has spent too long in the presence of this oddity to not know he means something sincere. She gives him a look, a _long_ one, before she rubs at her face.

“It is not something I can control.”

“But it is happening more.” Grey reminds her as he reaches within the confines of his coat and pulls out a small vial aglow with magicks. “And deeper. You go further and further away each time.” He adds, passing the vial to a hand that hesitates before snatching it out of his grasp. “What did you see?”

The rim of the vial pauses at her lips, cork already discarded to the dusty floorboards underneath. For a moment she is quiet, fingers sliding over smooth glass, before she is tipping it back and allowing concentrated aether to replenish that which she expended in her dreams.

_A place to return. A man to whom she would swear loyalty. A battle upon soil she swore to raze. Treasured companions._

“Possibilities.” Is all she will say once the ether has worked its business throughout her veins and filled her anew with a strength that feels hollow. It is a strength that will have to serve, this she knows as she slides to her feet and reaches for her greaves.

“Eventualities?” Grey inquires, stepping back to give his companion her needed space. There is a lilt in his voice that says he knows something is amiss. That she has seen something that gives her pause.

She looks up at him, fingers never pausing in the diligence of refastening her protection to her body. “... maybe one.” She admits after a moment, thinking of that scarred Hyur whose eyes glowed alight with something so familiar and kindred.

Grey seems delighted. “Only one?”

She thinks of a sword locked against hers. Of throwing hypocrisy into the faces of those who would spout it effusively without an ilm of awareness. Of a land locked in snow brought down upon the pyre on which it was built. Her grin bares teeth. “For now.” With her armor secured, she slides to her feet, tucking tail beneath the trail of her coat and seizes her sword. When she swings it wide, nearly clipping her companion with it, he remains unmoving. Of as much faith in her as she had in him in her vision. “Move.” She orders once the zweihander is locked to her back, its comfortable weight a familiar reassurance and a gentle pressure to start something reckless.

She is sure he smiles behind that foolish wooden thing he wears. “Good morning, Shria.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow I wonder who those dreams were about gee golly whiz what a mystery
> 
> \-- UPDATE --  
> Had to go back and adjust some details on Amattienne’s chapters, due mostly to the fact that I fucked up the timeline of things quite badly and she'd have been like. 14 when things got rolling. lul
> 
> tl;dr Charlemend is now her uncle rather than her grandfather and her mother is the Count’s sister rather than his daughter.


	15. By The Staff

He is learned, well before any of them. Long before Valentino learns to pick up a sword to fight for the preservation of his future. Long before Demase Orwen finds a lost little child in the wake of a cataclysm. Long before one man looks upon his empire and decides he must spread its influence to every conceivable corner of the realm.

He has been fighting an eternity.

 

Zhai'a Nelhah amuses Grey. Amuses him in all his bluster and discontent and bias. While the man is having words with Lalai, Grey entertains himself by watching the way the hair of his tail bristles and grows thrice its original size. Like a distressed dodo.

“Your type are so lively here.” He remarks, startling an abrupt halt to a conversation that he has most certainly not paid heed to in the least.

“I beg your pardon?” Zhai’a says after a moment, tones remarkably frosty as he crosses his arms. “Precisely what do you mean by _your type_?”

Grey laughs, the sound reverberating inside his skull thanks to his mask and wonders aloud if Zhai’a requires the heat of an open flame to warm up. The suggestion is, predictably, received about as well as it could be by a man who views all black magic as an art of death.

 

Zhai’a is, perhaps, not entirely incorrect. Black magic has, at least in Grey’s experience, always been something of a destructive force. Oh yes, it can be conditioned and controlled like any skill. Under specific moral quandaries, it can be about as harmful as a box of kittens. No more threatening than a sword or an axe.

“But there’s always bandits.” He muses to himself, though unfortunately in the Miqo’te’s presence. Zhai’a gives him a wary look, for Grey’s personality has done little to reassure him of Lalai’s insistence that he is in full control of his facilities, and puts another foot of distance between the two of them. When he mutters something underbreath about _investigations_ and _madmen_ , Grey laughs a little bit and offers the disturbed conjurer the mildest of shrugs.

“Mad, maybe, but not _mad._ ” He insists, earning a look of suspicious confusion. “You see I’m mad but I’m not mad. I’m divided but not angry. Important difference.”

Zhai’a does not understand, but Grey didn’t really expect him to. _He_ understands and that’s all that matters.

 

Grey remembers when Zhai’a might have considered him normal. Remembers when things were, ultimately, simpler.

He remembers a land a little more drab and a little more torn apart at the seams. A land struggling against good men turned to demons and the stirring of old gods. He remembers seeing friends turned to shadows of themselves, paying the prices that every would-be hero must pay. He remembers trading hard earned gil for scrolls at vendors, hoarding away his knowledge in darkened corners so that he might gain an advantage.

He remembers walking streets paved with stone and smelling salt and coal on the air. Limsa Lominsa is close, but it is not the same. Gridania is close to the land he once schooled in, but it is not the same. Ishgard is close to the land he was born in, but it is not the same. Ul’dah is close to the land he journeyed to, but it is not the same.

“Grey?” R’hiko is kind in his inquiry, noticing his distraction from the matter at hand. They are on a quest of sorts for an elderly gentleman who was driven from his birthplace. He seeks a reminder of better times in his childhood and they are here to collect. It is, perhaps, in musing about this that has him thinking about his past.

“We don’t leave behind as much as we think we do.” Is all he’s willing to say as he touches the blackened wood of a crumbling beam, watching as dirt and dust come away with his fingers.

He remembers the crystal that glowed as bright as the moon and the way it shattered beneath his fingertips.

  


He remembers a man whose madness would have brought the very realm to its knees. Would have torn asunder the bonds of man and beast alike and thrown all into chaos, heedless of the cost or sacrifice. He remembers the bloodshed, the loss and the sorrow. A grief unending for but a single person’s ambition. He remembers his unwillingness to tolerate such an atrocity. Remembers that there were such others who shared his morals and resolve to prevent such an outcome. That he has forgotten them now in detail is proof alone of his grief in their loss. He cannot remember their names or faces because he desires deeply not to. The anguish is too consuming in its entirety.

But he cannot forget their voices. He _c a n n o t…_

 

“You…” The meeting is not foreordained. It is unexpected, unusual, _unknown._ He turns upon the speaker, lithe form shifting slowly as he looks upon a face as equally masked as his own. She is small, this stranger, comparative to a Miqo’te in height and just as slight of frame. That which hides her face is far more practical- armor dark of color and fearsome in appearance. He senses, in a way that is obvious, that she is not to be toyed with. “You’re the interference.” She accuses, her arms folding as if in consideration of a mystery to which there is no solution.

Grey can feel his lips quirk ever so slightly in amusement. “Am I?”

She watches him, _feels_ the way aether distorts around his body in a way that reeks of the unnatural. It is more than power, it is something entirely different and it hinders her in a way she has never known. “What are you?”

He regards her with an intrigued eye and offers the most half-hearted of shrugs. “What are any of us?”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“You assume there is one.” His answer frustrates her, he can tell. It is in the way her shoulders hunch and her entire body straightens. As though she knows only how to fight that which she cannot comprehend.

He wonders if she too has much to remember and more to forget.

“Grey.” He offers, perhaps as a tentative gesture of friendship. He thinks, in an aside, that he would very much like to get to know her.

“That is not your real name.” She stuns him in that single utterance, so perfectly clear in the confidence of what she knows to be truth. For a fleeting moment, he is utterly robbed of all thought- for a brief, blessed moment his mind is clear and he can see only her. See only the way her covered eyes look upon him with both frustration and utmost clarity. _She knows._

His smile widens, genuine in his delight at having found someone who might _truly_ grasp his existence. “What is it that makes a name real?”

Her noise of disgust prompts a laugh for it is clear she has no interest in waxing poetics. She is straightforward, this gentle child before him, and still assured in her ignorance. He wonders if she would do better to remain as such or if he would rather have her join him in all his unknowing.

“We’re not unalike, I think.” Grey finally offers, for he believes she is far more uncomfortable about this meeting than he.

“That doesn’t please me.” She warns, finally unfolding her arms and straightening before him. “I only came forward because you’ve been messing up…” She trails off, uneasiness rolling off her in waves.

“Your gift.” He supplies her with an answer and she stiffens only momentarily before deflating in ill-concealed defeat. With the mildest of nods, she affirms what he has already guessed with all certainty. “Is it a gift?” He asks then, wondering if she’ll understand what it is he means.

When she glances back up to him, there is a resolve in her posture as she shakes her head briskly in denial. _This is no gift._

“Ah.” His mouth forms the single syllable in grave understanding. “I agree.” And he offers her a single hand. “But you might be able to make it one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> man I don't know when any of this takes place wtf is a timeline


	16. By The Light (two)

The idea to keep a written record of his adventures comes after one of his less notable conquests (one extremely angry jellyfish preying upon passerby) and mostly as a joke.

_ “You’ll need some way to keep all your future victories in order, after all.” _ Thancred had teased in his usual way, all quirked lips and warm gazes as he tried very hard not to pay overmuch attention to Valen’s growing collection of scars.

Later, as he lay in bed and tried not to lament the giant ache that was his body, he thought it might not be such a bad idea. A journal was one way to keep in mind all that had happened, to chronicle the many ways he had grown… and proof that he had lived should he die.

So he purchased a journal and made it his own, filling page upon page of his humble beginnings. A simple swordsman come to Limsa Lominsa seeking glory and to put his talents to use aiding the common peoples, only to find himself embroiled in the troubles of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, not that he had known them as such at the time. From encountering strangely robed men to fighting Gods of the beast tribes, putting it all to paper only seemed to emphasize just how far he had come in such a few short months.

Ruefully, once he had finished, he had flipped through the rest of the empty pages and mused he would likely have nothing to fill them with. How much more trouble, after all, could he possibly get into?

 

The next time he writes in his journal, it is by flickering candlelight at the Church of Saint Adama Landama, and his entire body is chilled despite the heat of Thanalan. Over and over again the scene plays in his mind, of fallen corpses upon the floor and the vision that let him hear their dying screams. Of Noraxia fading in his arms and knowing there was nothing he could do about it. 

It is in writing that he feels strange that he holds no anger- only grief and sorrow. They had come for  _ him.  _

This blood, however indirectly, is surely on his hands.

 

The adventures he had filled the pages of his journal with are, in the end, not all for naught. When Alphinaud comes to call and seems intent upon setting him on the path to tomorrow, Valen knows this is no undertaking he can see to on his own. He is weakened still from his fight with the earthen god and Marques-  _ Cid _ is little better, disorientated as he is. Before they go to Coerthas, he informs the pair there is something else he must do in Gridania first before they begin their search for the  _ Enterprise.  _ Alphinaud, if he is surprised, does not mention it, nor does he protest. It is on the way, after all.

 

It is the Gods’ luck that he finds them as quickly as he does. They’re gathered outside the Adder’s Nest with a third individual he does not recognize. By the bow on his back but the unusual make of his gear, Valen judges him to be an adventurer as well, but for his skin and ears, he fits in well with the Adders moving around them. 

Serene, taller and therefore to an advantage, spots him first and is on him in a moment. It isn’t until she’s grabbing his shoulders and looking him up and down that he realizes news must have made it to her ears. “Thank the Twelve.” She whispers once she’s certain he’s no more harmed than he was when they last parted. “We heard what happened. When I recalled you’d been summoned back to the Waking Sands, I was terrified you might have been… what happened? Are the others alright? Yda and Papalymo?”

The grim expression on his face tells it all, but it is when she  _ staggers _ in his arms that he realizes what is happening. The Echo, he thinks as he holds her upright and struggles under her weight, is not to be underestimated.

“Well, that was thoroughly unpleasant.” The stranger in the party remarks, voice pleasantly musical as he folds his arms and adopts a casual posture. “That Garlean’s a real piece of work.” When Valen looks to him in alarm, the Wildwood smirks at him, white teeth contrasting his darkened skin. “What, thought you were a rarity?”

“... apparently not.” Valen answers after a moment, carefully. 

“Destrillien Aurifort.” The man introduces himself after a moment, inclining his head in the barest of nods. “You might think of me as an honorary member of the Scions. They contacted me long ago, before you’d even stepped foot in the Twelveswood I’d wager, but I’d not commit to their name. Still I’ve friends among them. If you’re seeking to rescue the captured Archons, I’ll put my bow to your cause.” 

“We were discussing with Destrillien how to proceed when you arrived.” Serene explains, shaking her head as the vision slowly releases her from its thrall. “You’ve a plan?” She inquires then, slowly stepping away from him but keeping her hands on his shoulders. 

Looking up at her proper, he looks first to her and then to Shuo’li and Destrillien. “... aye, I’ve a plan. And I need your help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh god I just want to write the elves why was arr so long


	17. By The Light (three)

“What do you make of him?” Yaelle is discreet in her murmur as she comes to stand by Corentiaux, both of them observing the latest quartet of visitors to happen upon the Fortress. As the purported leader of them engages with their commander- Lord Haurchefant, it is Corentiaux who makes her laugh by whispering back in equally conspiratorial tones-

“A bit short, don’t you think?”

Destrillien, keen of hearing and equally gifted in keeping a straight face, cannot help but smile faintly as he watches Valen parley with Haurchefant Greystone in a bid for aid in finding Cid’s airship. Certainly the man has welcomed them far more kindly than all within Coerthas combined thus far, save perhaps Francel de Haillenarte, but truly if anyone were more gratious than Francel in greeting them- he might be well concerned for the reputation of Ishgard’s frigid demeanor towards outsiders entirely.

In the corner, Serene stands by her lonesome, gaze downcast and speaking softly to a voice unheard by all but herself. The call had come some few moments ago and she had removed herself from the current company to receive it without distraction. Their fourth and final, he notes, is near lost amongst the busywork of the commander’s office and is finally spotted squatting astride the singular source of heat for the massive room, warming his hands. Seemingly, Shuo’li has sensed that this conversation is going to carry on for some time and has opted to spend his time more sensibly.

“You might have more luck throwing yourself into the flames, the way you carry on.” He suggest to the Keeper, earning a wry look as if to say:  _ Don’t tempt me.  _ With a broader smile, he leans against the cool pillar of stone that serves as the hearth’s border and folds his arms. “I would not advise it. Patchy fur is not overwhelmingly charming.”

Shuo’li shrugs, unperturbed and continues to inch ever so closer to the flames in a desperate bid to stay warm.

“Mayhap you would be better served to find a coat.” Destrillien finds himself adding, glancing over the lancer’s garb in mild consideration. “I know tis unlike a Miqo’te to dress so heavily, but there is reason for the knights’ heavy wear.”

As if in pointed refusal, Shuo’li’s eyes drift towards the trio of half-naked men doing squats in the corner, before glancing back at Destrillien with a tilt of his head.  _ And them? _

“Ah, well that is a matter of fervent masochism that is all too much involved with faith and entirely much too troublesome to discuss in detail. If Ishgard’s precious inquisitors have no qualms in accusing one of their blue-blooded nobles, they certainly will have none in condemning an adventurer to a fate much the same, or even worse.” Is Destrillien’s roundabout way of saying he has no desire to discuss zealotry in what is essentially the heart of a war camp.

Shuo’li, burdened with years of living under Aarden’s similar way of speaking, is quick to understand that and even quicker to roll his unseen eyes. Still, there must be some twitch of his tail or ears that Destrillien has caught onto that gives it away for the Wildwood is quick to give him a reproving look. “There is an  _ art _ in eloquent speech, I will have you know.” His tone is defensive in nature and indignant in word.

Knowing full well his retorts are limited, Shuo’li simply gestures taps his own lips and shrugs aimlessly-  _ I wouldn’t know _ \- and chuckles when the Elezen sighs. 

"Then I shall just have to say enough for the both of us."

 

“I had a notion.” Aarden’s voice is appropriately somber as he strides out of the Quicksand, hearing the doors swing shut behind him as the heat of the Ul’dahn sun beats down on his brow. “So I took some appropriate steps, but do tell Valentino I’m pleased he’s unharmed.”

_ “Steps… I’m startin’ to be afeared.” _ Serene’s voice is a bit tinny over the linkpearl, indicating both distance and interference. She is, perhaps, somewhere with a great deal of turbulent weather.

“Gathering a few friends is hardly something to be concerned over.” His voice takes on a somewhat cheeky note. “I only intended to support you in what manner I could.”

_ “A few friends… Knowin’ you, you’ve gone and mustered a small army. That ain’t exactly what I’d call ‘support’ my lad.” _

“An army seems a bit of an exaggeration.” Aarden persists, raising his eyes forward and smiling involuntarily at his companions who await him. “There’s only to be four of us.”

_ “With the damage you’ll wind up doin’, army’s close enough.”  _ Serene informs him unrepentant.  _ “You’ll take care of it then?” _

“Yes, you can leave the matter to us. Take care with the Ishgardians. They’re a secretive lot, moreso than the Adders.”

_ “How in the blazes did y’even…?” _

“An educated guess, I appreciate you confirming it.”

She can just  _ imagine _ the smile on his face. With a snort, Serene ends the call on:  _ “Ballsy little shite.”  _ leaving Aarden to smooth a hand over his face in a vain attempt to hide what is an overwhelmingly smug grin. There is an undeniable satisfaction to being right.

“Something funny?” Ayla inquires, leaning towards Aarden with one hand on her hip and a smile of curiosity gracing her lips.

“But what became of the undead cat after it had its answer?” Grey answers in solemn tones, prompting a wry look from Aarden as he lowers his hand from his ear and shakes his head.

“You may paint yourself a man of mysticisms, but truly you are just full of terrible jokes.”

“Cookware.”

“How does that even-?” Aarden begins as Ayla bursts out laughing and does nothing to hide it. Shaking his head, lest he encourage the thaumaturge any further, he gestures to the near glowing streets of Ul’dah, lit under an endless heat, and gives the Elezen a pointed look. “You mentioned a fourth?”

Grey smiles, though it’s hidden beneath the veil of his mask, and turns west. “Fate is its own path.”

 

The call comes whilst he is enduring his own kind of struggle.

The blow rings out harsh against his ears, echoing in the space between and making him wince as it tremors down his arm and up to his shoulder. His opponent is not a timid man and it shows in the way he fights. All daring audacity and bold strokes as he strikes again and again an arm that threatens to buckle under the assault.

The sand is slippery footing as he tries to find purchase and slides a little more- perilously close to defeat.  _ Just a little more… just a little more… _

Blow after blow becomes exertion, his sword little more than a club used to pound his adversary into the ground. He would have him become the nail and him the hammer.

_ Just… a little… ah- _

It happens in an instant, the splinter of an opening in what was previously a seemingly impenetrable wall. He strikes, swifter than eyesight can follow, and hooks his opponent’s arm in the same instant his sword arcs in a curve, looping around his assailant’s blade and-

_ There…  _ his foe drops, sword flipping through the air to clatter ungracefully against the walls of the ring and land harmlessly in the sand. The few present to observe offer their applause, belated and hesitant for none present truly understand how it ended, so swift was his movement. As his opponent looks up him, bewildered and not the least bit incredulous, R’hiko Tia takes a step back and exhales.

That’s when his knees give out.

“Him?” Aarden questions as they gaze into the sands below, watching as the Miqo’te seems to have trouble finding his feet again, looking both winded and trembling.

“For reasons not clear to your scholarly gaze.” Grey remarks, glancing instead to Ayla who looks astonished. What might be missed by a set of eyes accustomed to the mouth of knowledge would be seen by an eye given to the swiftness of shadows, and she looks to be suitably awed.

“Him.” Ayla concurs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what npcs


End file.
